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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28389234">Opia {Spencer Reid X Reader}</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/iminlovewiththc/pseuds/iminlovewiththc'>iminlovewiththc</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love, Smut, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:09:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>49,830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28389234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/iminlovewiththc/pseuds/iminlovewiththc</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spencer leaves work to read at a park in a rich neighborhood, he meets Y/N, a rich girl who hides trauma with confidence. She's kind, understanding, everything Spencer looks for in a girl. Spencer builds the courage to speak to her, which stems into a friendship, and soon, more than that. Spencer is shy and struggling with his own monsters, but stays due to his undying love for Y/N. It's hard for him, but they end in love and happiness although it may turn dark and cold for them both.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spencer Reid &amp; Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 01. the new friend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Today feels a little different than usual, I think as I walk up the stairs into Hotch's office. It's almost like something is going to happen today, something impactful. I tend to listen to myself, so every second of the day I'm on the lookout for what's keeping me up at night.</p><p>And today, I think it's the perfect time to keep my eye out. I'm asking Hotch for the rest of the day off so I can "attend an NA meeting."</p><p>Speaking of NA meetings, I've been taking days off to attend them, which truly works because Hotch can't really say no to such a thing. The issue is, though, I haven't been going. I stopped attending those meetings a couple of weeks ago because my urges have gone down and because I don't think I need to attend them anymore.</p><p>But- there's always a but- my nightmares are still haunting and as much as I know about the brain and nightmares that haunt me, I don't know how to get rid of them. I've tried talking to the team about it, but they aren't necessarily sure how to help. It feels somewhat good to tell them, though.</p><p>I finally reach Hotch's office, so I knock, hovering my knuckles over the tall heavy door, waiting patiently for the two words to allow me to enter. Then, after a short second, I hear them. I place my hand on the cold doorknob and turn it to the side, pushing the door open.</p><p>The office is cold, I can feel the drop in temperature in his normally seventy-five degree office. The average temperature in Quantico during August is eighty-five point six degrees Fahrenheit, so the need for rooms being lower than seventy degrees is unnecessary. I don't think rooms should be that cold, at least, but Hotch is Hotch and he can be quite intimidating and frightening at times.</p><p>I quit thinking about the coldness of the room and head to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. His desk is cluttered, full of paperwork and scattered pens. Pretty messy for Hotch. I press my lips into a thin line, swallowing down the excruciating nervousness I receive every time I ask this question.</p><p>Hotch looks weirdly at me, like he knows the question I'm going to ask in two seconds. But he keeps his silence, because he wants me to ask myself. So he does, or else the conversation will go nowhere. "Hotch, can I... can I take the rest of the day off for an NA meeting?"</p><p>Hotch just stares, all widely like he's making fun of me for being so dumb. I don't know why I'm so surprised at Hotch catching the lie I've been attempting to hide for just over three weeks, he's one hell of a profiler.</p><p>"Go ahead, Reid," he says, a faint smirk laying on his lips.</p><p>I nod with a copy of his smile, and get up from the sinking leather seat. I grab onto the strap of my satchel and begin towards the door, grabbing the doorknob, almost turning it before Hotch says something else.</p><p>"Hey, Reid," he says. I turn, my jaw stilling. "If you need a break, you can always ask. You need one."</p><p>"Thanks, Hotch," I reply softly. He flashes another warm, sympathetic smile. Hotch rarely smiles, so I take in as much as I can. After a second, I swivel back around and pull open the door, the smell of coffee and paper filling my nose, the combination so warming and home-like.</p><p>I head through the hall and down the stairs, making my way through the bullpen where everyone is minding their own business. Surprising. Odd, too. Morgan is usually up and messing with Emily, or they're both at my desk, throwing jokes at me. They don't hurt though, because I've been told worse things than "awe, pretty boy doesn't have much of a love life, huh?"</p><p>I try to pass by without being caught, but it all fails when I feel large, heavy hands fall on my shoulders. I let out a sigh, already tired of the jokes to come. Morgan can be repetitive with the things he says, so I already know what he's going to say and ask.</p><p>"Well hello pretty boy," he says, almost excited to see me. "You thought you could leave without saying goodbye?"</p><p>One hundred and seventy- four times. Well, one hundred and seventy- five now. Morgan has said the same combination of words one hundred and seventy- five times over the past year and eight months. You would think he would switch up his sentences and maybe choose a different set of words, but no. He says the same exact thing every Tuesday and Thursday.</p><p>"Hey Morgan," I say, ready to leave the office.</p><p>"Off to find a pretty girl?" Morgan asks, so destined to receive the answer I've spent forever trying to find. It isn't that easy finding someone in Quantico, shockingly.</p><p>I usually say "No," with my eyebrows drawn and a shake of my head, but I feel good about today, so I do the opposite. "Yes, I am," with a smile on my lips and eyebrows raised.</p><p>I can hear his laugh, see the grin that takes over his entire face. "Woah!" He hits my shoulder with the utmost strength. "That's my boy." He turns me around so I'm now facing him, and like most times girls are brought up, his toothy smile shines. Morgan can be motivating and supporting underneath all the tease, and I'm grateful for that.</p><p>I give a nervous laugh, slightly wincing at the aggression used on my shoulder. I look at the man I consider a big brother, searching his face for some kind of lie that I'm sure is to come, but I come to a dead end. I'm not sure why I doubted his level of excitement, because Morgan has always pushed me to put myself out there. Morgan loves the fact that I am going out and "trying" to meet someone.</p><p>After a moment of staring at each other, Morgan breaks the silence. He pats my shoulder once more and begins to step back to his desk. "Alright Reid, go get yourself a girlfriend."</p><p>"Hopefully," I whisper to myself, being as optimistic as I can. The park I'll be taking the metro to is in a neighborhood full of older adults, but every now and then there will be a woman my age. I never take the leap to talk to them though, because I get overly too nervous and begin to overthink.</p><p>Awkward person, I am. </p><p>I turn around and head towards the glass doors, pushing past them to get to the elevator. I press on the elevator button, waiting outside, moving on the balls of my feet with my hands stuffed in my pockets.</p><p>When the doors open, I step inside and click on the main floor, allowing the doors to close. Although no one is in the small compartment, I stand towards the back, huddled in the corner. The elevator begins to move and I can't help but grab onto the railing, the movement too much for me. I hate elevators, if it hasn't been made clear. </p><p>I draw in a deep breath and count to five before breathing out, keeping my cool as the numbers above me lower and lower until they reach the main floor. I shut my eyes momentarily, as if I'm thanking the elevator for not shutting down.</p><p>The doors open and I walk out, flashing the people passing by a crooked welcoming smile. I keep to myself, and although it doesn't make sense for me to be a semi anti-social FBI agent, he makes it work.</p><p>Sure, the lack of social interaction does cause problems in mental health, but I interact with dozens of people on a day to day basis- if I'm on a case- so I find no issue with keeping to myself outside of work.</p><p>I exit the building and tread along through the parking lot, stepping onto the lonely sidewalk. It's sunny out and there's a cool breeze brushing through the trees, causing a low buzz in the air. I smile to myself, growing happy as I hear the birds chirping and the leaves rolling past me on the ground.</p><p>Ninety days until Halloween, I remind myself, only increasing my excitement. No words can describe how much I love Halloween, and the fall season itself. It's something about the smell in the air and how different the world feels.</p><p>I cross the street and jog over to the platform, almost missing the train I'm supposed to take. I hurriedly dig into my pocket, searching blindly for my metro card. After what feels like eternity, I find the card and take it out, swiping it across the small screen next to the driver.</p><p>I look up to see the driver's eyes, an irked expression taking over the elder woman's face. She's clearly annoyed at me for delaying the take off time, and I feel bad for doing so. I walk up the steps, guilt and shame coursing through my body as I find an empty seat and sit down.</p><p>The passengers' eyes are all glued to me, all showing different expressions. One woman seems apologetic while the man behind her has his eyebrows drawn, indignantly staring at me like I'm some past enemy.</p><p>I swallow the throb of combined emotions and avert my focus onto the road, which is beginning to disappear behind me. I look at the different buildings that pass by, closely looking at the old and new and the torn down and recently built structures.</p><p>I like paying attention to such a thing, it's like a guessing game; What year was this building or store built and how long did it take to build. The average amount of time it takes to build a small building is usually seven to nine months, therefore small corner stores take a shorter amount of time to build while larger stores like Target take longer. And while it sounds simpler to say, to many average minded people it takes them forever to figure it out, while it takes me seconds to make a spot-on guess.</p><p>After fifteen minutes, the bus comes to a halt and I jolt forward, almost sliding out of my seat. I look around to check if anyone sees me, but everyone is getting up and making their way through the vehicle. I fix myself up- guiding my disheveled hair behind my ear and fixing my tie and vest- and get up from my seat, following behind the old lady who seemed motherly.</p><p>Since I felt as though I plagued the driver, I offered her a short apology, to which she accepted. I prod down the steps and jump onto the sidewalk, quickly brushing past the sprawled out crowd. I hold onto the strap of my bag, so tight my hands begin to sweat.</p><p>I release my grip from the strap momentarily and brush the sweat onto my black slacks. I look around the large neighborhood, hit with shock at how large and fancy corner stores look and how sophisticated every passerby appears. I'm in the middle of a rich neighborhood, and I hope I fit in because I cannot stand another frightening stare.</p><p>I come to a stop, turning my head to both sides before crossing the street onto the warm, green grass. I look around the oddly empty park, turning my eye at every spot I can find. Most spots are unowned, but they're all sunny, and while I enjoy the bright day it is, I want to sit under a nice big tree and read. Able to see every fine letter on the rough paper.</p><p>I'm not usually picky with much of anything, but when it comes to a reading spot, something in me changes and I begin to list every pro and con about each location I lay my eyes on. I'll stand in one spot for five minutes simply taking in the park, with my arms crossed, looking all dad-like. </p><p>Then, I find the perfect spot. Underneath this great green tree by the small pond in the center of the park, where only one other person is sitting. I squint my eyes to adjust to the person sitting feet away from the tree, all alone, seeming to have a picnic.</p><p>I begin walking towards the tree, avoiding the woman who lays crisscross on the red, black and white plaid blanket. She has her chin tucked into her chest, her lips pressed together so thin that the color drains from them. And she has her hands entwined together on her lap. Pure disappointment.</p><p>She must have been stood up, due to her body language and by the way no food is eaten from the trays and containers on her blanket,I think as I take my seat on the bench. I feel the automatic pain anyone would receive after seeing someone all alone, sort of embarrassment brewing in my stomach as well.</p><p>Not because she's sitting all alone, eating nothing and avoiding her phone, but because I would feel the same way. She probably feels humiliated. I understand.</p><p>I don't want to say anything, because when I come around strangers- especially women- my legs turn to jelly and my mouth sews shut, disabling me of any and all words that beg to leave my mouth. I've worked on it, in ways some would believe to be ludicrous.</p><p>Some ways meaning practicing how I would greet someone in the mirror or holding a conversation with someone imaginary, to "gain confidence," of course.  I rarely use the skills I've attained with those methods in real life, so I'm not entirely sure they'll work. Because envisioning someone in front of you and talking to them like they're there isn't so realistic.</p><p>I'm not planning on speaking to her, so I continue with my plans. I open my satchel and take out "In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote. I've read it before, but it was so interesting that I had to read it again. I turn to the first page, taking in a long breath before scanning my eyes through the pages.</p><p>I read in peace, only the sounds of leaves falling on the ground and the brushing of trees echoing in my ears. I skim through the book, finishing faster than the first time- a minute and thirty-three seconds to be exact. I should've brought another book, I scolded myself. I read twenty thousand words per minute, I could read dozens of books in an hour.</p><p>I place the book back into my satchel, buckling the flap afterwards. Since I have nothing else to do, I look down at the pond in front of me, watching the sun shine down on the brown toned water. Ducks walk out of the water, small ducklings following behind the mother.</p><p>It's peaceful, the air sweet and fresh like fruit in early spring and summer. Peaceful. Then, the quiet is interrupted by the sound of someone arguing over the phone. That someone being the girl a few feet away. My first instinct is to shut her out and not be nosy, but I can't stop himself.</p><p>"Clara, what the hell?!" She exclaims, eager for some kind of answer. "You told me you would be here by three and it's four thirty. Are you fucking kidding me? I have been waiting for so long."</p><p>She grows angrier as she pauses, waiting for the "Clara" to answer on the other line. She doesn't sound like a rude person, she's overly straining her voice. It's evident in the cracks that break the seriousness in her voice.</p><p>"Look, Clara I'm sorry but I can't do this with you anymore," she continues. "If you changed, you wouldn't be standing me up for some stupid smoke session... Okay, Clara, if you've been stressed for whatever reason, then I understand. Just let me know, 'kay? Bye."</p><p>She's nice, she's giving whoever Clara is another chance. But I shouldn't be listening in on her conversation, any conversation at that. I feel creepy just listening in on such a tough conversation, it's wrong.</p><p>So, I shut out the noise behind me and avert my focus onto the pond once more, looking down at the dogs and owners sitting around, watching the ducks as well. I lose myself staring, so long I almost forget I've been sitting there for thirty minutes.</p><p>I snap out of my haze and jolt from the forest green bench, stretching my slender arms above my head. I let out a groan as I stretch some more, the cracking of my spine and neck echoing in my ears.</p><p>I pull the strap of my satchel up onto my shoulder and turn around, the same girl who was there before sitting in the same spot. Food is missing from the platters, but besides that, everything is in the same place.</p><p>I look at her for a second, contemplating whether I should go up to her or not. She seems lonely, and after the call, she must be highly upset. After a moment of biting on my lip, running the same idea in my head over and over again, I build up the courage to talk to her. I move towards the plaid blanket, stumbling over the small hill we're on.</p><p>I meet the edge of the carpet and look down at her, with all the anxiousness and nervousness in the world. She doesn't look up at me, so I begin to think that I should leave, but I clear my throat. Too late.</p><p>She looks up at me, her mouth putting on a smile as she meets my eyes. I open my mouth to speak, but my words are delayed from the sight in front of me. She's beautiful. The type of beautiful you see once at the grocery store, then go home and create scenarios in your head about. It sounds foolish, I know, but it's true.</p><p>She's breathtaking.</p><p>"Hi, can I help you?" she asks in a soft tone.</p><p>I shake my head, my mouth sewing shut against my will. I stop the final stitch that's ready to shut my mouth, and ask the continuing question. "No, sorry. I just... I saw you here when I sat down and-"</p><p>Her eyes widen and she begins getting up, gathering some of the items on the blanket. "I'm sorry, were you planning on sitting here?"</p><p>I wave my hands, stopping her from moving any further. "No, no of course not. I've just seen you sitting all alone for the past forty five minutes and I wanted to make sure you were okay," I say. "I accidentally overheard your conversation and you seemed upset. I know it sounds creepy but I felt bad." </p><p>Surprisingly, she doesn't seem offended nor weirded out by what I admitted. She just sits back down and places the reoccurring smile back on her face. "Oh," she laughs. "Yeah, my friend stood me up again. She just got back from Las Vegas and wanted to hang out but," she shrugs her shoulders, sagging them in pure exhaustion.</p><p>"She didn't show up," I reply.</p><p>She presses her lips into a thin line, clicking her tongue like she was somewhat ashamed. "Yup... I'm sorry. I've told you too much about my life. You probably think I'm some weird girl who dumps all of their issues onto someone they just met."</p><p>I shake my head, so hard I might go into shock. "Oh, no don't worry it's okay. I just wanted to check and see if you were okay."</p><p>"Well thank you," she says, an appreciated smile taking over her warm skin. She looks up at me, parting her lips as though she wants to speak, but hasn't planned out entirely what she wants to say. Then, she moves aside and motions to the space next to her. "Would you like to sit?"</p><p>"Are you sure?" I ask.</p><p>"Of course, come on."</p><p>She fixes the spot next to her and arranges the food, so I can grab anything if I choose to. I sit down criss cross on the spot meant for me and take my bag off of my shoulder.</p><p>When I'm situated, she reaches her hand out to me. "I'm Y/N Y/L/N." A lump grows in my throat, due to my uneasiness for shaking hands with someone I've just met. She catches on after a moment, and pulls her hand away. "Germaphobe? Got it."</p><p>"Yeah, sorry. The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering, so I choose to just wave," I sigh, almost in a chuckle.</p><p>Y/N's smile stays glued to her face, unable to remove it. "That's okay, I respect that."</p><p>I ease up. Already, she makes me feel accepted, liked in the simplest of terms. She's respectful and allows my boundaries to stand. She isn't forcing me to shake her hand. And it may be because we've barely met, but I can tell it isn't a phase she'll get over. She's sweet at all times.</p><p>"So, what's your name?" she continues.</p><p>"Spencer Reid," I reply, softly.</p><p>Y/N hands me a small cup of cubed cheese, the variation of colors catching my eye. I shouldn't take it. Not because we're total strangers, but because I'm lactose intolerant. She lays it in front of me, just in case I want to try them later on.</p><p>"Well, Spencer Reid, tell me about yourself. What are you doing over here, you kind of stand out," Y/N asks in a curious tone. She scoots in closer to me , making sure to cover her legs with her long skirt.</p><p>I look at her, worried that I'm truly standing out. "Really?"</p><p>She huffs a laugh, cracking a smile large and shiny enough to blind me. "No, I'm just messing with you. But, I can tell you don't usually come over here."</p><p>"How?"</p><p>"Well for starters, you stood over there," she points at the spot I stood at for roughly five minutes. "And looked at the park for forever before finding a place to sit. Also, you have your FBI badge on and surprisingly, not that many FBI agents live around this area."</p><p>I raise my eyebrows, astonished at how well she's figured me out. She must live around here if she catches on to newcomers so well. "And Y/N, you fit in just right. If that's what you're going for."</p><p>Her eyes widen, almost bulging out of her head. She isn't offended at my comment, she's just trying to be a tease. "Well that hurt!" she laughs, raising her hand up to her chest as though she was stabbed in the heart. "But in all honesty, sometimes I do try to blend in. If I stood out too much, all the old people would scream and die over a simple tear in my stockings or jeans."</p><p>"I think you would look great with a little tear. Not that you don't look amazing already, but-"</p><p>"Spencer, I think that's a great idea. I think I would look a little hot too," Y/N replies, confidence laced over the low self-esteem she hides. "Anyways, tell me more about yourself. I like to listen to you."</p><p>I swallow the brick in my throat, enabling me to speak without stuttering. She's making me overly nervous, drowning me in sweat from the lack of words I'm thinking of. "Well... I'm twenty- six and I have three PhD's, one in mathematics, the second in chemistry, and the third in engineering. And I also have two bachelor's in psychology and sociology."</p><p>Y/N looks overwhelmed at the information she's just received, shaking it off with a laugh of amazement. "So am I looking at a genius right now?"</p><p>I scrunch my nose, nodding my head with a grin from the conclusion she' s ended on. "Yes, yeah I am a genius." We look at one another, looking at each other's features, grasping every wisp of hair and every freckle as though one of us might disappear.</p><p>The longer I look at Y/N, the more beautiful she becomes. Her hair appears soft and silky- she must take good care of it- and her eyes are soft as well, glass-like. And her skin, how could I forget her skin, it reminds me of porcelain. Soft and delicate, despite a couple of bumps that rise on her face.</p><p>I hope she sees me as beautiful as I see her, because I would be utterly thankful if she did. I receive compliments from women- and men- every now and then, but I don't feel anything for them, so I completely forget about it.</p><p>And we stay that way, for longer than intended. People pass and the noises of kids playing and dogs barking all coo in my ear, and I forget about what's surrounding me, because I'm lost in her eyes (and vice versa).</p><p>Though I hope to stay that way until it rains or something catastrophic occurs, Y/N suddenly speaks, after a long silence. "Sorry, I got um... I got distracted," she apologizes. "Well, I'm twenty- two, I have an Associates in arts and a Bachelors in filmmaking. Oh! and I turn twenty-three on December twenty-eighth."</p><p>"Capricorn. Loving, independent, honest, but you do have a fear of rejection," I say, with great elation in the knowledge I speak of. I like to talk about others' zodiac signs, and sometimes even guess theirs as well.</p><p>Y/N giggles, almost embarrassed at how correct I am. "And I'm assuming you're a Scorpio. Passionate, determined to succeed and you tend to work yourself a little too hard to fulfill all of your aspirations. Am I right?"</p><p>I nod, biting down on my lip to stop the laugh threatening to leave my throat. She's overly correct, and I like it. She's a smart girl. "How did you know?"</p><p>"By your gait, how you speak. And why not bring up the fact that you have three PhD's and two BA's?" She replies, throwing the proof in my face. I look down at her hands, which are playing with one another, out of anxiousness, I suppose. She probably doesn't speak to many guys, by how overly confident she's been.</p><p>Then, my phone buzzes, vibrating in the depths of my pockets. I lift up slightly and reach into my pocket, turning the small phone over and checking the message I've received.</p><p>Penelope: Hey boy genius, we have a case! Be here in twenty.</p><p>I groan at the message, my happiness draining through the imaginary drain in my body. I place my phone into my pocket and flick my eyes up to Y/N, frowning back at her pretty face.</p><p>"You gotta go?" She asks, in the same tone I'll respond in.</p><p>I click my tongue, letting out a nettled breath. I don't want to go, because it's the happiest I've felt in a long time, which sounds absurd, but it's all true. I've rarely reached out and talked to people that aren't a part of the team, or are my mom, so it feels nice doing so.</p><p>"Yeah, I have a case to attend to," I reply.</p><p>She grabs her bag and zips it open, digging through in search for what I think is a piece of paper. She finds nothing, so she takes her phone which is laying next to her and opens it. "I'm hoping this isn't some one time thing, so could you give me your number?"</p><p>I move in closer to Y/N, so close I can hear her breaths next to my ear. I look down at the phone, catching her phone number on her contact list. "I got it, don't worry." I get up and dust myself off, in case there's any dirt on my pants.</p><p>Y/N doesn't ask any questions, clearly beginning to catch on to the surprises that are yet to come. She gets up and dusts herself off as well, then looks up at me. She gazes into my eyes, leaving dancing hearts in my vision. Her eyes are like honey, sweet and addicting.</p><p>"Text me when you can," Y/N notes, offering the smile I can't get enough of. "It was nice meeting you, Spencer."</p><p>I step backwards, stumbling over a few times before catching my balance. Y/N laughs- not the malice kind of laugh, but the friendly kind. "It was nice meeting you too, Y/N."</p><p>I turn around, filled with joy from the events that just took place. I hope this isn't just a one time thing either, so I'll try all in my power to maintain whatever is blossoming.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Rich Bitch</p><p>Rich. That's the word Y/N used to describe herself. A sixteen year old girl in Virginia who had the privilege of graduating early from High School with her Associates in Arts. She would get to attend one of the most prestigious schools in New York that upcoming Fall. A school that has a seventeen percent acceptance rate.</p><p>Explaining herself to someone else would be exactly like explaining some stupid movie about a rich girl who smokes weed in an empty parking lot to feel normal. Like they want to rebel against their parents morals because no one understands them. They didn't fully understand her, but she could've cared less. She was and always has been thankful for them, though.</p><p>They own a big business that sells all kinds of sanitary products, from face wash to razors. They get a lot of money out of it, which was the reason she lived in a huge house in the middle of a rich, white neighborhood full of republicans.</p><p>Thankfully, she didn't attend the same all-girl Catholic school as the other girls in her neighborhood, because if she did, she would have gotten into a lot of trouble. Most of the people living near her were snobby high school teenagers who judged people for the slightest of things.</p><p>They were the reason Y/N only had one friend on the street- Clara. Clara was the one that stood out and had more of a "traumatic" story than her. Y/N's parents never had any marital problems- not that she knew of- and she always lived with all the glory and riches. Clara on the other hand, was rich, but her dad was a jerk.</p><p>Clara would say that her dad made her so miserable that she would just smoke the pain away. She had been smoking since she was able to lay her hands on a cellphone. Even without a phone, though, she would ask her older brother for some of his stash.</p><p>They were both in seventh grade when she began smoking, but Y/N laid off and decided to just watch her for the first two years. Then, in her freshman year, she tried it out. It made her feel good. She might have been sitting in some creepy park in the middle of the night, but it felt good. She had no pain to smoke away either, her life was easy and everything was handed to her in the palm of her hand, but she simply wanted to experience being high.</p><p>And maybe that wasn't such a good idea, because afterwards she would smoke in a distant parking lot every other day where people either smoked, like Clara and Y/N did, or had sex. And that was exactly what they did that hot, August night. Smoke.</p><p>She inhaled on the roll handed to her, sucking in the smoke and letting it out after a few seconds. She kept the silence between her and Clara, choosing not to speak, only listening to the dry wind that brushed past the leaves.</p><p>Y/N handed Clara the roll again, and she did the same— inhaling, making a hissing noise with her teeth, then letting it out. She repeated a couple of times after, then broke the silence. "God I wonder how you're going to do without me and all this weed down there."</p><p>Y/N laughed, her eyes heavy and tired. "I'm not addicted. I can stop whenever I want to."</p><p>"Yeah right."</p><p>She pushed her arm, hard enough for Clara to shut up for a second. "I promise you that when I leave, I'm not gonna be doing any kinds of drugs."</p><p>Clara scrunched her eyebrows, blinking slowly as though she was trying to grasp what Y/N said. She was going to New York, she thought, they smoke more pot than any other city in the world. If she wasn't going to smoke, she was quite good at controlling herself.</p><p>And maybe telling Y/N such a discouraging fact wasn't a good idea, but Clara didn't have as much control over her words as any normal human being. "I hope you know that that'll be quite difficult, since you know, there's all kinds of druggies roaming the streets of New York." </p><p>Y/N rolled her eyes, annoyed by the lack of support she was receiving. "Wow, thank you so much Clara," she exclaimed sarcastically. "But I hope you know that I have more control over myself than you."</p><p>Clara scoffed, offended at the rude remark Y/N made. Clara was aware of how rude she could come off, but she never thought anything of it nor did she think it was that big of a problem. But it was, because Y/N was surely almost done with being her friend.</p><p>"I was simply trying to help, oh my god," Clara replied, feeling instantaneous shame yet anger build in her body. Clara herself was growing sick of Y/N, simply because she was more sensitive than the average person.</p><p>Clara let the blunt burn, laying it on the rolling tray before shifting on the curb. She shook her head, befuddled at where such anger rooted from. And that was one of the cons of Clara; She was almost always the root of arguments yet failed to accept that she was the reason. She was toxic and what she did was toxic.</p><p>Y/N knitted her eyebrows, reciprocating the look on Clara's face. It was another one of those times where Clara wasn't going to take the fault, she thought, 'how wonderful'. "Don't do that again, I promise you you look so stupid when you act lost."</p><p>"What do you mean?" Clara asked dumbfounded.</p><p>"You always start these problems and never own up to them," she stated, her voice echoing in the empty park. "Just like how you say these stupid and offensive things and when I tell you what you said, you act lost and offended because "that's not what I meant," or "I'm trying to help.""</p><p>Clara opened her mouth, accompanying her contorted face. She didn't want to get into an argument with her bestfriend the day before she goes off to college, but there they were, having an argument where Y/N was bringing up something irrelevant, in her words.</p><p>"Why- What are we even talking about? Me saying offensive things or me starting arguments?" she asked, all defensive like she was protecting herself from all of the exposure.</p><p>Y/N leaned her head to the side, flashing Clara a smile. Y/N had a long list of god awful things Clara had said, some that made her sound too humble. She would let the pure act of being humble take over her to the point where she wasn't even humble anymore.</p><p>And Y/N listed them all to Clara, including the time she said "I'm going to a community college in one of those suburbs and just start over. No money to my name, just me making it out on my own."  Which really set Y/N off because she never took pride in being rich. Clara would shop at thrift stores and shops that were clearly meant for those who had little to no money, because she wanted to see how it felt to have nothing.</p><p>Clara could've shopped at high end shops, she could've dined with a celebrity for all Y/N knew, but she was never proud of the money she had. She took being independent to the next level.</p><p>Y/N on the other hand, was aware of all the money she had, and she was glad about it. She didn't use her money as a form of power, though, because that was how the girls in her neighborhood acted. She bought from boutiques and cute shops- because she could afford it- but never blew it up in peoples faces.</p><p>Y/N was a kind rich girl, and she took pride in being so. She was glad with not being like Clara, which was odd because they were bestfriends, but Y/N always thought that opposites attracted. And maybe that was the case for many, but not for that friendship.</p><p>"So what?" Clara exclaimed. "I don't want to be known for being Mac Johnson's daughter, I want to be known as Clara and nothing else. I want to get through life on my own, with my money, not my dads nor my moms."</p><p>Y/N couldn't help but burst into an evil laugh. She wasn't as high, because the session had barely begun when the argument started, but she was still out of it, which was shown in how aggressive she was. "Clara, you do know people would die to be rich? People would die to be apart of a rich family because everything is handed to them. Just like me and you!"</p><p>"But I'm tired of it!" Clara shouted.</p><p>"Tired of being rich?"</p><p>"Yes!"</p><p>"Well get over it, because you will always have that stack of money to your name, no matter what you do or where you go, you can always turn back and ask your parents for as much money as you want," Y/N replied, so infuriated you could practically see steam coming out of her ears.</p><p>Y/N got up, walking back towards the direction of her house. She didn't turn back to see what Clara was doing, because she was so tired of holding a conversation that was clearly going nowhere. Clara was hardheaded and Y/N wasn't going to put up with it any longer.</p><p>Sure, Y/N would come back to Virginia in four years- voluntarily- but she hoped she would find someone better than Clara and better than the snobby girls in the neighborhood.</p><p>Someone kind and supportive, and she had a good feeling about it.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 02. the shining goddess</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"It was hilarious. God you should've seen your face," Morgan laughs in my face, completely in denial at the fact that he was quite terrified of being stuck in the elevator.</p><p>I was completely terrified for my own life, I will say, but dying in an elevator was not how I was going to go. There are six elevator deaths per year, and ten thousand injuries that require hospitalization, so there was no way I was going to let Morgan act as foolish as he did.</p><p>I grip onto my coffee mug, bringing it up to my lips and taking a sip. I do so to distract Morgan from making any more jokes, and thankfully it works. I lean back on the counter, crossing my right foot over my left, taking another long sip of my warm-sugary drink.</p><p>Morgan is popping grapes into his mouth, keeping quiet next to me. He turns his body towards me, his language indicating that he's preparing for a question. "So, how did finding a girl go?" he asks with a grin, a chuckle lingering in his voice.</p><p>I raise my eyebrows, hovering the mug over my lips before giving him a reply. I should probably keep Y/N out of work talk, because Morgan tends to tell Garcia, and Garcia tends to tell... well everyone. And Y/N and I have just met, therefore I don't want anyone- especially Garcia- looking into her as though she's some victim or unsub.</p><p>I plan on learning about her as we continue talking to one another, sharing secrets about ourselves until we reach a trusting bond. I don't want to learn something about her through a file in the FBI database.</p><p>"I met someone pretty interesting," I say, forgetting I was supposed to lie to Morgan. I can't sustain a secret when around him, though, which can have both a pleasant or horrific outcome. "But I'm not sure I want to tell you guys about her just yet."</p><p>I begin hearing a low buzzing in my pocket, the feeling shuddering down my right leg. I look up at Morgan, who's quick to place a grin on his lips. He knows who it is. I set my mug down and dig into my pocket, fishing for my phone which is among my keys.</p><p>I take out my buzzing phone and look at the caller ID, pleased to see it's Y/N. I can't help the smile that overtakes my face, the way my eyes light up when I see her name flash on my small screen. We've only been messaging and calling one another for four days , yet I already feel an overwhelming sense of attachment to her.</p><p>That can either kill me or bring the utmost bliss into my life, but if it's all from Y/N, I have no problem.</p><p>I answer the phone call and bring the small cell up to my ear, curling my lip as I hear her voice. "Hey!" She says, a low giggle after her words.</p><p>I peer down at the floor, forgetting all about the nosy man standing next to me, only at the conversation that's begun and the shoes on my feet. I peer at the slight patches on the brown pair of dress shoes, the point making my feet ache due to the compression. I should have worn my converse today.</p><p>"Hey," I return, excited to hear what she's so excited about. She's spoken to me in the same tone for the past ten or so calls we've had, but the continuous cycle of wondering what moments have happened always elevate my mood.</p><p>"How are you?" She asks.</p><p>"I'm," I look at Morgan, who's now slowly washing out his mug. He cannot hide his way of spying very well, which is hysterical. "I'm doing okay. How about you?"</p><p>"I'm doing good now that I've heard your voice," she says. I just stand, failing to remember to give her a response. After a period of silence, she says, "What are you doing after work? I wanted to hang out, if that's okay with you."</p><p>I glance back at Morgan, noticing he's still washing his already clean mug. I chuckle, laughing at him for being so invested in my conversations. "Yeah, I can. Just send me the address and I'll be over right after work."</p><p>"Would you rather me pick you up? So maybe we can pick up a couple of snacks before," she proposes.</p><p>"I can always take the metro," I reply, wanting to keep her from wandering over town simply for me.</p><p>"Nonsense, I'll pick you up," she says. "I will see you, pretty boy, in a couple of hours."</p><p>"I'll see you, pretty girl," almost in a question, "in a couple of hours too. Goodbye."</p><p>"Bye-bye."</p><p>I allow her to hang up, and god do I feel like curling into a ball from the embarrassment I've received. She's probably in her apartment making ultimate fun of me for how overly new I sounded using the nickname. To be honest, I've never used such a nickname, no nicknames at all in general, but I felt as though I was obligated to do so.</p><p>It didn't roll off of the tongue easily, but maybe I need to break into using it. (Later on I'll read the book "Relationships 101" by John C. Maxwell to get a hang of all of the sweet talk.) I am nowhere near experienced, I've usually been the one called the pet- or dirty - names, therefore calling someone else anything more than their name turns me wary.</p><p>I place my cell phone back into my pocket and turn around, watching Morgan finally place his soaking mug onto the drying rack. He has a huge smile on his face, as though a brother has confessed to him that he's "done something" with a girl. He's proud, yet probably still thinks I'm a virgin.</p><p>I begin towards the door, my feet moving at a faster pace than I thought. I don't want Morgan to ask any questions about Y/N, or else I might begin and never finish. There's so much to say about her that I might get carried away.</p><p>But it's almost impossible to slip away from Morgan, due to his quickness in possible relationship talk, especially if I'm included. "Remember kid, wrap it before you tap it," he says in a chuckle.</p><p>My eyebrows scrunch together in disgust, my eyes blinking repeatedly as I try to process the odd joke. "Ew, gross Morgan," I reply to him as I walk out of the room and into the bullpen. I can hear his blaring laugh from my desk, and I wonder why he's dying at such an obscene joke.</p><p>I move aside my pens and books before I pull out my spinning chair and sit down. The team is moving slowly, dreading the paperwork they receive every single day. I, on the other hand, enjoy paperwork. It's calming to sit down and read through the files, albeit the acts that occurred for me to be reading them.</p><p>"Why did it sound like Morgan was dying up there?" Emily asks in a monotone voice, concentrated on the files.</p><p>I reply to her with a pen in hand and my eyes glued to the file in front of me. "I... I don't know, probably laughing at some dirty joke he thought of." That was true, but the reason for the dirty joke being made was due to the conversation I held with Y/N.</p><p>"Wrap it before you tap it," I think to myself. Meaning to... wear a condom before having sex... I presume. I will not be having sex with Y/N, it's too soon and I would like to take things slow. Not because I don't want to have sex with her, but because I'm not experienced. I'm like a teenage boy trying to figure out what to do when I'm near a girl.</p><p>I become so nervous and tense when placed in an event where I have to kiss someone, or any spicy moment where I must reciprocate actions that involve less clothing and more sensual touching. I turn into a tomato and I become a sweaty mess. I wish I could throw myself out there more, in every category.</p><p>Flirting and simply being a social adult is not me whatsoever. That is why the events of Thursday shocked me for three days, because speaking to a complete stranger- that stranger being a woman- was far from the Spencer I usually am.</p><p>"Huh, probably," Emily responds.</p><p>I press my lips into a thin line, allowing a silence to settle between me and the surrounding team members. I avert my focus to the paperwork and skim through them, reminding myself that I'll definitely finish in thirty minutes, or less.</p><p>I can't stop thinking about Y/N though, and her beautiful face and features she holds. Her eyes are illuminating, bringing much more light into the dim world. Her hair is golden, in it's own way (not speaking of color) and it shines brightly wherever she stands. It's funny though, because she's only appeared in my dreams after the day of the picnic, so all I am recalling is her in them.</p><p>But she must be the same in real life, I know it. And even if her hair doesn't shine like in my dreams, it shines in my eyes.</p><p>Everything about her is beautiful, from her hair and eyes to her legs and hands. All miniscule features of her body are those of goddesses. But as much as I love thinking about her and daydreaming about moments that I shouldn't be thinking about, it's slowing me down. The thirty minutes I set for myself have now been over and I am not finished with paperwork.</p><p>I'm almost done, so I get on and read through like a bolt of lightning, so quick to come and quick to be over with. I fill out the last pieces of paperwork and close the file, setting my pen next to the folder. I stretch my slender arms above my head and lean back in my chair, hearing my spine crack from being hunched over for so long.</p><p>I close my eyes for a split second, processing the day that has passed by and the events that are awaiting. I wonder if I'll kiss Y/N. I want to, but I feel like a hypocrite for having the urge to. We met four days ago, and in two hours It'll be five. I told myself that I'll take it slow, but I want to kiss her, just once if she allows me to.</p><p>I sound greatly psychotic for imagining her lips on mine, my hands in her hair and what not. It's normal to hold sexual fantasies about the person you find attractive, or hold a crush on, all I have to do is have self-control. I can do that, I can control myself and the thoughts that run through my brain.</p><p>Lack of self control roots from anxiety and the lack of social skills someone holds, which the more I speak about, the more I begin relating to. I'm not that way though, I tell myself. Just like the time I stopped myself from kissing Lila in the pool. I wanted to continue with the act, but I knew I couldn't. It was at the wrong time and especially in the wrong setting.</p><p>After a second of imagining myself with Y/N, I open my eyes to see Emily and JJ sitting on my desk, their hands in their laps, both with a motherly expression on their faces. I scoot back, sensing a talk coming in. I knew I shouldn't have told Morgan a peep about the person I met at the park, it was a sense of protection for myself and Y/N.</p><p>I clear my throat and flick my eyes at both of them, who are smiling at one another like they're keeping a fatal secret. "Emily, Jennifer, hello," I greet awkwardly.</p><p>They look at one another, then JJ looks at me. "I heard you met someone at the park."</p><p>"Yeah, by a little birdie named Derek Morgan," Emily continues.</p><p>I swallow the growing lump in my throat and smile, encouraging myself to stay quiet this time. I shrug my shoulders, making it clear that I won't tell them if I did or not. "I am not telling you guys. It is an invasion of privacy."</p><p>They scoff, pushing one another around. They won't back down from the topic, and they're making it clear by the way they move and laugh. "Oh come on Spence, we just wanna know who they are," says JJ.</p><p>I receive another buzz in my pants and I reach in and grab my cell phone, taking it out and keeping it low to my side. I turn on the small device and check my messages, to which I see a message from Y/N.</p><p>Y/N: I'm already outside!</p><p>I look at the two women standing in front of me, both interested in who I am receiving a text from. "And who may that be?"</p><p>I get up from my chair and reach down for my bag, sliding it onto my shoulder. "Uh- my Mom," I say, again like a half question, half statement. As I pick up the stack of paperwork and head to Hotch's office, I continue with a fact they must know. "You know on average, workers in America spend forty minutes per week gossiping. Fifty five percent of men gossip while seventy nine percent of women chat. That's four in five women."</p><p>"Oh come on Spence, we just want to know," they shout, both laughing.</p><p>"And I want to like someone in private," I reply, tired of the conversation that should have ended ages ago.</p><p>I should enjoy talking to my friends (and family) about the people I hold crushes on, but occasionally I like to enjoy the privacy. It's fun keeping a secret as big as this from people you've known for so long. Pure entertainment seeing their faces when you tell them for the first time. But now that they know, all they'll be excited about is seeing Y/N for the first time, if I ever get around to that.</p><p>I reach Hotch's door and step back, waiting for the O.K. I hear him say "come in," so I enter, flashing him a closed, crooked smile. I tread along to his desk and place the stack on the corner, far enough it won't mix in with his other work, but close enough for him to reach.</p><p>"Thank you Reid," the dull tone of Hotch answers. I nod and turn back towards the door, gripping tightly on the strap of my bag. Hotch probably heard as well, from Penelope. Penelope tells everyone about the gossip she's heard, including Hotch, although he doesn't listen.</p><p>I grab the handle and twist it, opening the tall black door. I almost walk through without a word from Hotch, but it fails the moment I move my foot one inch off of the floor. "I hope it all goes well, Reid. You deserve someone in your life."</p><p>I turn to him and nod, the corners of my lips turning up from the hint of proudness and hope that laces his words. "Thanks Hotch, I'll tell you if it does." I swivel back around and walk through the door, closing the door behind me once I'm completely outside.</p><p>I quickly walk down the stairs, keeping my eyes downcast from the eyes of my fellow team members. They are overly nosy, something I'm not accepting of this time around. I may join in on the nosiness when I'm not the topic, but when I am the tables turn. I want to be the one having a relationship with Y/N, not me and the rest of the team having a relationship with her.</p><p>I move around the room, making my way towards the glass doors. I hear a clacking of heels behind me and I close my eyes for a split second, taking in a long breath that'll keep me sane for a few more minutes. I turn and see Penelope, excitedly walking up to me with her arms wide open.</p><p>She runs up to me and wraps her hands around my scrawny body, so tightly I might lose circulation. I lay my chin on her shoulder, rubbing her back with both of my hands. She squeezes me until she shakes, then moves back, with the biggest grin set on her lips.</p><p>She fixes her bangs, moving aside a pink strand of hair that's stuck to her lip gloss. She shakes her hands, controlling herself before speaking. It seems to me that she's more excited to learn about the woman she's heard about all day than I am. But that's Penelope, thrilled to hear about our love lives.</p><p>She reaches up and cups my face with both hands, staring me right in the eyes. "I hope all goes well, and that something stems from this little friendship going on. I know you guys have been messaging back and forth for the past couple of days."</p><p>I scrunch my eyebrows, confused. "What?" I ask. "How?"</p><p>"Come on pretty boy, Morgan told me about the dozens of times you stepped out of the room for an "important call,"" she says. "I'm surprised at how well you balanced all of those calls and solving the case."</p><p>My eyes widen and I raise my eyebrows, embarrassed. Not because I used up a lot of time calling Y/N, but because I was caught. "Well I learned a lot about her, but please don't do your own digging. I want to learn about her on my own."</p><p>She pats my cheek then removes her hands, running them up to my hair and pushing my hair behind my ear. She fully takes her hands back and places them by her side. "I promise I won't. I understand." She quickly begins to push me backwards towards the glass doors. "Now go, your girl is waiting!"</p><p>I throw my hands up and push through the door, laughing to myself as I push the elevator button. I wait until the doors open, then I step inside. I go to my usual spot in the corner, safe from the zero people inside. I wave Garcia a goodbye and the doors close before I can see her do the same.</p><p>I hold onto the railing as the elevator descends, distraught at what took place days before. I watch the floor number descend, whispering them to myself until I hit the main floor. The doors open and I step out, clutching onto my bag as though someone might steal my belongings. I shouldn't feel so nervous in an FBI building, but there can always be a crazy imposter who sneaks in.</p><p>I walk through safely, and I push past the front doors. I'm instantly met with the third of August wind, as well as the heat it brings. It's gotten cooler as the days pass by, but it still remains somewhat hot.</p><p>I make my way through the parking lot in search of Y/N's car, but she never told me what color the vehicle was, therefore I fail to find it. I dig my hand into my pocket and take out my cell, turning to my messages to see if she's sent an update.</p><p>I then hear a honk of a horn and I look up, seeing her in a white 2006 Toyota Avalon, with her windows rolled down.</p><p>"Get in loser, we're going shopping."</p><p>+++</p><p>"I'm assuming you already know I'm a bit... wealthy," Y/N says.</p><p>I purse my lips, nodding my head slowly as I take a bite out of the vegan grilled cheese she made me. She wasn't vegan, she just enjoyed having vegan cheese in case someone came around who couldn't eat regular cheese. She also made the bread, which was interesting to hear.</p><p>"Yeah, parents money," she continues. "I'm thankful for it though, you know. Anyone would be happy to have so much money... I think?"</p><p>"I think so," I reply. "Many people claim that money doesn't solve problems, but there's multiple studies that have shown that the majority of wealthy individuals claim being wealthy is reassuring."</p><p>She nods, keeping a short silence between the both of us for a moment. Then she smiles, as though she's remembered something joyful. "You know how rich people have this endless amount of money and they do nothing with it?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"Well I like to give money to charities every month and I send a couple hundred dollars to this one family in El Salvador too." She shifts her body on the couch, growing happier as she talks. "They live in a small house made from cement where they basically have no floor and it just breaks my heart. They have to fetch water from this creek and they don't clean it or anything. Just imagine living in their shoes."</p><p>She truly does seem heartbroken. She's so invested in helping this family, it brings me joy to see her use her money for good. I don't typically speak to wealthy girls, not after Lila. We kissed and she told me she liked me, but after the hundreds of magazines and pictures that were released to the media, she never reached out. I hoped she would message me, but she never did.</p><p>And it was upsetting to see her on these advertisements for movies and shows, knowing that she was doing fine without calling me. I knew I shouldn't have thought anything of the kiss, but it was something unforgettable. Kissing in a pool, fully clothed. That is something you can never forget about.</p><p>"I like that about you. You're so kind and joyful all of the time, how do you do it?" I ask, considerably curious.</p><p>She shrugs, and I catch onto the sadness she's covering up. She probably keeps a smile on her face so everyone believes she's okay. I want to help, if she's truly in some kind of pain. Physical or mental. "I don't know, I just don't like to see people struggle financially when I have loads of money to spare."</p><p>I reach my hand out to hers and she pulls away, covering her actions by pushing her hair behind her ear. "I- sorry I haven't washed my hands since I made our food," she notes.</p><p>I chuckle at her comment, looking at her concerned pair of eyes. She's remembered that I'm a germaphobe, it's sweet. I've grown closer to her though, so I don't mind. "That's okay," I assure her. She scans my face in search of a lie, but she comes up empty.</p><p>She lowers her hand and I reach for it, entwining my fingers with her soft ones. She tenses at the feeling, as do I, but we both fall into comfort after seconds. My heart beats at a hurting speed I haven't felt in a long time. A year and ten months to be exact. I look at her to see if she's the same, and she is.</p><p>Her jaw is tight and her chest keeps heaving, like she's just ran a marathon and she's trying to catch her breath. I squeeze her hand and she looks up at me, her glossy eyes on mine, shining under the dim lights of her apartment.</p><p>I hope to stay like this forever, in a moment of no worry, filled with awkward breaths and stares. With the shining goddess in front of me.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 04. Her Angel, Only Angel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Hey kid, how did it go?" asks Morgan from his desk, glancing over at me with his pen in hand.</p><p>I look up from my paperwork with a large smile on my face, facing the eager Morgan. Surprisingly, I'm not mad at him for asking, because I've been dying to tell someone about the "date." It wasn't necessarily a date per say , but we kissed and learned more about one another.</p><p>I drop my pen next to my paperwork and sit straight in my chair, preparing to tell him all about what took place. "So..." I already stumble over what to say first. "We started asking one another questions about our childhoods and I- she asked about..."</p><p>Morgan looks at me with scrunched eyebrows, trying to grasp what I'm referring to. I told him not too long ago about the "incident" that took place in the fieldhouse, and he was nothing but supportive and kind, helpful. After a moment, his eyebrows relax and he begins to nod, his mouth parting slightly at his understanding.</p><p>"And I'm assuming you told her."</p><p>"Yes, of course. But then she uh," I hesitate. Why keep it in? I ask myself, It's Morgan. "She kissed me."</p><p>Morgan's eyes widen and he jolts from his slouching position, already clapping his hands as though he's won the lottery. He's ecstatic, so much so that he's probably forgotten that we're in an office with dozens of workers around. "Atta' boy!" He exclaims, his smile brightening the room. "Anything else happen?"</p><p>"We held hands again. And we took a nap together," I summarize. We spoke about each other's childhoods until we became drowsy at remembering moments we spent so long ignoring. I told her most of everything. Most.</p><p>And just like I couldn't tell her everything, she most likely avoided telling me a couple of her past experiences as well. Speaking about traumatic experiences can send you back to the moment you dread the most, giving you nightmares and panic attacks when remembering. I don't expect her to tell me about the trauma she's stuffed away, because I won't tell her about mine just yet either.</p><p>Morgan lifts from his chair and walks towards me, and I already know what he's moments away from doing. He reaches my desk and pats my back, with much force that the air is knocked out of my lungs.</p><p>My face contorts into a weird expression, scrunched together forming lines on my forehead and nose. He can be unintentionally aggressive when proud of me, and I may not pay mind to it, but it hurts my scrawny body. Most would think I'm used to it, but Morgan is a different kind of strong.</p><p>"Are you guys going to hang out again?" He asks, ruffling my hair.</p><p>I look up at him, squinting my eyes as locks of hair fall onto my face, blinding me for a moment. I shrug, "Maybe, if she wants to." I run my hand through my hair, pushing it back to the state it was before; gelled back to where it was behind my ears, curling up together at the ends. "I'll call her?"</p><p>He sits on top of my desk, half of his body sitting while the other half is over the edge, helping him stand. "Spencer, don't ask me," he states. "If you want to hang out with her, then do it. If you don't, then don't. That," he brings his index finger to my chest and presses down, "is up to you."</p><p>I nod, smiling at him for the words he just gifted me. "Thanks Morgan," I sigh with a smile.</p><p>He purses his lips and without speaking, he removes his body from my desk and treads back to his own. He immediately continues with the stack of paperwork on his desk, becoming concentrated as though the conversation between us never occurred. It's always been funny to me how he can be so loving and brotherly one minute, then serious the next. I like both sides of Derek, the balance makes him bearable.</p><p>I don't return to my work immediately though, due to the training thoughts of calling Y/N. I want to see her, hug her because I've never done so. I'm amazed that we haven't shared a hug yet. We've kissed and held hands, but we haven't hugged. It's silly, in simplest terms.</p><p>I continue to think about Y/N, her voice, her smile, her beautiful eyes. I decide to pay attention to those compelling thoughts because it's her.</p><p>I stand and push my chair into my desk, tidying up before leaving for a moment. I maneuver around my desk space and walk through the bullpen into the small kitchen area. I take out my phone and turn it on, pressing on my call log and clicking on Y/N's contact. The screen changes and I bring the miniature cell to my ear, counting the dials it takes for her to answer.</p><p>Then, her voice booms through my ear, bringing me instant joy. "Hello," she says, her smile audible through the phone.</p><p>"Hi," I respond in an elated tone. I look around the room, looking for a place to stand while I'm on the call. I choose not to sit, so I lean next to the counter, crossing my left arm over my torso. "How are you?"</p><p>"I'm great," she responds. "How are you? Aren't you working right now?"</p><p>I shake my head, smiling down at the floor. I've called her everyday while at work- even telling her that I'm at work- but she continues to ask the same question. I don't bring it up to her though because I understand how the beginning of phone conversations can be.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah I am. And aren't you answering emails right now?" I ask her, returning the obvious string of questions.</p><p>Y/N spends most of her days answering emails for her parents business, and she brings the topic into every conversation we hold. I don't mind, because I bring being an FBI agent in almost every conversation as well.</p><p>She laughs delicately, the sound she emits so angel like, sweet like honey. "Yes, this is the last one I have to answer though, so that's fun."</p><p>I switch the foot I'm leaning on and bring my phone to my left ear instead of my right. "Yeah, that is fun," I whisper, my smile still evident as I speak. "Do you have anything planned afterwards?" I notice that I sound quite attached to her, which is an issue I don't want to get out of hand. I don't want to become so attached to her that I break apart if she ever leaves, though I have a good feeling she won't.</p><p>"No, I don't. Would you like to come over?"</p><p>I bite down on my lip, causing them to rip more than they already are. I do need to stop this habit, although it's quite difficult to. "Y- Yeah, if you would want me to come over."</p><p>She laughs, and my jaw stills. I sound awkward, I must have come off that way if she laughed. But she laughs at practically everything I do (which doesn't help my case).</p><p>"Spence, I always like it when you come over," she assures.</p><p>The nickname she's just called me stirs the butterflies in my stomach, my insides mixing together from the nervousness . Not many people call me "Spence," only JJ. Though JJ means to call me Spence in a brotherly tone, therefore it isn't taken seriously. But Y/N means it differently.</p><p>I nod my head as if she's standing right in front of me, talking to me face to face. I continue the conversation in my head, failing to realize I'm doing so until she says my name once more, this time desperately.</p><p>"Spencer?"</p><p>"Yes?" I ask, feeling asinine course through my veins as I cough into realization.</p><p>"Do you want to come over?" She restates.</p><p>I stammer over my words before they even get a chance to leave my mouth. I nod once more, opening my mouth and creating a low murmur to make sure I can speak. "Yes, yeah I would love to come over."</p><p>She giggles softly, so low the sounds of computers and papers almost covers the sound. "Okay then, I'll see you when you get off."</p><p>"Okay," I whisper. "I'll see you then. Goodbye."</p><p>"Bye-bye."</p><p>I wait for her to hang up, which she takes quite a bit of time doing. She probably thinks I will. I can hear her giggles through the phone, which only makes the dim smile on my lips grow wider. "You want me to hang up, don't you?"</p><p>She pauses her laughs to speak. "Mhm."</p><p>I laugh, keeping my eyes glued to the floor as I shake my head. "Okay," I murmur. "Goodbye pretty girl."</p><p>"Goodbye."</p><p>I hang up, keeping the cell clung to my fingers moments after I've done so. I can feel my heart pounding, so fast it might lurch out of my throat. And my breaths are heavy and slow, loud when I recall the need to breathe. The impact Y/N has on me is insane. I've never felt this strong about someone before, so soon into the... relationship... either.</p><p>"Hey, Spence," the voice pertaining to JJ speaks.</p><p>I look up from the floor, immediately placing my cell phone in my pocket. I straighten myself out before replying to her, attempting to hide any and all indications that the girl I was on the phone with turned me into a tomato. "Hey JJ," I exclaim, my voice too preppy for a simple greeting.</p><p>She huffs a laugh as she walks in, caught off guard at such an excited tone of voice. She's dressed casually, not that she is everyday, but more office- button up tucked into a black pencil skirt kind of casual. The first couple of buttons of her white dress shirt is unbuttoned, perfectly tucked into her black pencil skirt. Typical paperwork outfit.</p><p>"We could all see you 'cheesing' from our desks," she says, lifting her fingers in quotations. Morgan must have said that for her to do so.</p><p>"Cheesing?" I ask, scrunching my eyebrows together in confusion. Morgan is more up to date on slang, and I obviously am not. I like to stick to the regular, proper words, not the words thirteen year old's use. I don't find it necessary, although sometimes I sound quite foolish when speaking to teenagers while on cases.</p><p>She shrugs her shoulders, crossing her arms together over her chest as she scoots in next to me. "Morgan says it means smiling really really big."</p><p>I copy JJ's actions, crossing my arms over one another as I lean back against the counter. We stay that way for a moment, simply standing still, sighing in sync every five seconds. It feels natural this way, keeping the silence between us while staring off into the office full of workers. I think we might be doing this to get away from the work... but I enjoy work, so it must be JJ.</p><p>After a few moments, she speaks up from the long silence. "I know you guys have only been speaking for what, a week and four days?"</p><p>"A week and five days."</p><p>She nods, taking in the abrupt comment. "O-Okay then a week and five days. Well from those twelve days that you've known one another, I can tell she's making you really happy. I don't think I've seen you smile that big since before..."</p><p>I purse my lips, inhaling deeply as the torturous events of Tobias Hankel rake my memory. I've spent so long trying to forget, but every time I push aside such events, it only causes the load to get heavier and heavier. "Yeah, well she's pretty amazing."</p><p>She turns and faces me, unhooking her arms and placing them on my shoulders. She looks at me, her icy blue eyes staring into the depths of mine, like she's searching for something. "You deserve every drop of happiness and love Spence, really. After Elle and Gideon left and... Tobias," the name is like a stab at every vital organ in my body. "You need whoever you're talking to. I wish you the best of luck."</p><p>I look at her with a smile, the usage of words unnecessary due to the look I give her. She continues holding onto my shoulders, squeezing them as though she wants a hug or some form of appreciation for what she's told me.</p><p>"You can hug me, you know," I tell her.</p><p>She laughs before reaching up and wrapping her arms around my neck, hugging tightly as I hold onto her torso. I lay my head on her shoulder, keeping my eyes on the desks with thousands of papers scattered across them. She squeezes me tightly for the last time, slowly letting go of my thin body.</p><p>"Thanks," I whisper to her, an ounce of neediness lingering in my breath as the words leave my mouth. I was needy, I will say. I haven't hugged anyone in a couple of months, and not because I'm a germaphobe- I allow the team to hug me- but because I have pushed away almost everyone while attending NA meetings.</p><p>I've gotten better. I was attending NA meetings due to the addiction I had with hydromorphone (dilaudid) but I slowly got better and attending them wasn't my top priority anymore. I know that if those urges hit me like a crashing wave, then of course I'll start going again, but right now I'm okay. Okay without the drugs, but maybe not okay with the nightmares.</p><p>She pats my shoulders and begins to step back, glancing behind her so she won't topple over the round table. She bumps into it anyways, and I step forward to grab her, in case she falls over. She laughs, gripping onto my hand while she regains her balance. "Thank you," she laughs, removing her hand from mine.</p><p>"Mhm," I murmur. She turns and walks out of the small kitchen area, strutting through the bullpen and up the stairs.</p><p>I slick back my hair with my fingers, pushing every wisp of hair into it's place. I draw in a long breath before stepping out into the line of desks, ready to work until I finish with the load of paperwork.</p><p>I reach my desk and I pull out my chair, plopping myself on the cold cushion. I scoot in and grab a pen and a file from the stack next to me, dropping it in front of me with care. I open it and shut my eyes tightly, as though I'm wishing for the file to disappear when I open them.</p><p>Paperwork can be entertaining on a normal day, but not when you're looking forward to a certain event. In my case, hanging out with Y/N.</p><p>I open my eyes and begin with the paperwork in front of me, eagerness running through to my hand as I begin to fill out the pieces of paper. I rush through them with intent to finish quickly so I can spend as much time I want with Y/N. And gladly, I finish quickly.</p><p>I place the pen back into its assigned cup and gather the paperwork I've placed on my left. I stand up and kick my chair into my seat, almost losing my balance as I step into the aisle. I take a left and walk up the stairs to Hotch's office, a smile appearing on my lips as I'm reminded of who I'll see when I leave.</p><p>Y/N. The person I have a good feeling about.</p><p>I make it to Hotch's office and I remove my hand from under the stack of paperwork. I knock softly on the door, pivoting on my heels as I wait for his grant to enter. I hear his stern voice and I place my hand on the doorknob, twisting it and pushing the heavy door open. His office is still cold, but warmer this time around.</p><p>"Place the stack on the corner of my desk, please," he tells me without looking up from his paperwork.</p><p>I step forward to his desk and place the stack where he directed, hovering my hand over the paper after I've laid them there. I swivel on my feet and head towards the door, stopping midway to say goodbye to Hotch. He'll be here after I leave, and after the team leaves too. He deserves to be spoken to more often.</p><p>"I'll see you on Monday, Hotch," I say, my voice low but full of sympathy for him. "I hope you have a good night."</p><p>Hotch looks up at me, his lips still joined together in the same stern expression. He may look sick of everyone he encounters, but I know he appreciates the comment. "You too, Reid."</p><p>I purse my lips and nod, keeping my eyes on him until he looks back down at his paperwork. Guilt plagues me, but I know he's grown used to the amass of work he has to complete each day. Though that isn't ideal for him nor anyone else I know, he must enjoy his job.</p><p>I exit his office and close the door carefully, instantly picking up my speed as I walk down the stairs to my desk. I grab my jumble of keys from my pocket and pick out the blue color coded key from the bunch, bending down to the drawer and sticking it into the lock. I pull open the drawer and grab my bag, throwing it over my shoulder so I can lock the compartment.</p><p>I do so, then take the key out of the lock. I place the keys into my pocket and stand up, grunting lowly from being kneeled down. I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and turn around towards the door, surprisingly keeping out of anyone's way.</p><p>I push past the glass doors and quietly reach the elevators. I push the elevator button and wait patiently, my hand on the strap of my bag and my feet tapping against the floor. Then, the doors open and I step inside, standing in my usual spot.</p><p>The doors close and I take my usual spot. Today, I don't hold on to the railings, which is a huge milestone, if you ask me. I still hold on to the strap of my bag, though. I click my tongue to every floor I descend, stopping when I hit the main floor. The doors open once more and I exit, putting on the "hello, I'm too shy to talk to anyone," smile.</p><p>I pass by the dozens of incoming workers, giving them all waves as I scoot past them to the door. I make it to the exit and pass through the door which is held open for me. I give the nice man a low thank you and tread away from the crowd.</p><p>I cross the lot and step onto the sidewalk, beginning my walk to the metro station. I look at both sides of the street, taking in the large buildings on my left and right, then at the cars that drive past me. I spot a familiar car begin to slow down and I start to squint, craning my neck forward to catch who it is inside.</p><p>The car nears me and comes to a stop. I hesitate to look inside, but then I realize it's Y/N. She rolls down the passengers side window and reaches over the center console, flashing a large smile at me. "Hey angel, want a ride?"</p><p>My mouth instantly hangs open and my throat tightens at the name she's just called me. I like the nickname, but I shouldn't take anything from it, because she probably has called others the same name.</p><p>"Yes, please," I tell her without a question.</p><p>She sits down in her seat and unlocks the passengers side door, emitting a low sound from the vehicle. I reach for the door handle and pull it open, unhooking my bag from my shoulder and setting it down on the floor before sitting down. I situate myself inside and put on my seatbelt, clicking it in as she does a U-turn.</p><p>She looks at me, then back at the road. I smile at her though she doesn't have her eyes on me anymore. I can see her looking at me through the corner of her eye, which makes the situation more hilarious than it should be.</p><p>"So, you aren't going to ask how I knew you would get off at around this time?" She asks, almost as though she knows how I know. And I do. It's quite simple.</p><p>"No, actually it makes sense how you would know," I state. "I text you every day at the same time saying that I've left work, so now you know the exact time. It's essentially glued into your memory."</p><p>She glances at me, raising her eyebrows in surprise. "Huh. You do not fail to surprise me, Doctor Reid."</p><p>I shrug my shoulders, turning my gaze to the street in front of us. "A lot of people say that. I don't really think so though, the information I give others is quite basic."</p><p>She scoffs, "you, my angel, are the most adorable person in the world."</p><p>My lips turn up in the corners, the butterflies in my stomach awakening once more. I wonder if I will ever calm down around her. She creates a safe space for me, but I also turn into a nervous and anxious mess while around her. It's due to the constant worry of setting a good impression, or continuing that good impression.</p><p>When around someone you find attractive, you wonder if you smiled at the right time; if you smiled too big or you didn't smile enough, or if what you did was too weird. People look too deeply into oneself and what they're doing when around someone they find attractive. And that right now, is me.</p><p>"Thank you," I whisper to her, my lips trembling as I speak.</p><p>We stop at a red light and she turns on the radio, the sound of pop music filling every crevice of the small car.</p><p>She abruptly turns her head and looks at me, smiling widely before singing along to the song. "I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want," she sings, her bottom lip between her teeth. "I wanna," she turns her head at the low "hey's" between each lyric. "I wanna, I wanna really, really, really wanna "zig-a-zig," ah"."</p><p>I have no clue what she's singing, but it's awfully cute how she dances in her seat. It's dangerous to dance in cars, due to the lack of attention paid to the road ahead of them, but I let her pass this time because she looks amazing.</p><p>I stare at her the rest of the way to her apartment, glancing at her fingers and the way they grip onto the steering wheel. How each hand has rings, the blue topaz birthstone specifically illuminating the car with it's color. Not only her hands, but the way her features glow under the gleaming sun. Her nose and lips, both perfectly shaped. She was beautifully created.</p><p>A queen, a goddess, all of above found in the dictionary under her name.</p><p>I enjoy her face, build, her gait and how she sits eagerly next to me each time she has a story for me. She doesn't even have to speak in order for me to become elated. All she has to do is stand in my presence.</p><p>+++</p><p>"I don't know, I like a bunch of songs," she says, placing the bowl of popcorn she has on the coffee table. She sits away from me, but leans back and places her head on my lap. "There's this band from Sheffield that started in 2002, but they recently got pretty popular."</p><p>"What are they called?" I ask while gathering her hair from underneath her.</p><p>She lifts her head, making it easier for me to grab every strand and wisp of hair. "Arctic Monkeys. You've never heard of them before, have you?"</p><p>"No," I say, slightly embarrassed at not knowing the band she's referring to. "I'm sorry."</p><p>She reaches her hand to my face, gently caressing my cheek with her thumb. "Don't say sorry, angel, you've done nothing wrong."</p><p>I lean into her touch, closing my eyes momentarily to feel her every groove of her fingertip. She continues to touch my skin, leaving invisible marks as her thumb trails down to my neck.</p><p>She doesn't wrap her fingers around, only gliding up and down with the back of her hand. I keep my eyes closed while she does so, and they remain shut until I feel her breathing near my ear. I've only paid attention to her fingers that I've lost track of time and movement.</p><p>She wraps her arms around my neck, her fingers finding themselves locked in my hair. I look down and she's straddling my hips. I have a hard time processing the change of events, but no matter the amount of time I take, I'm fully in consensus for what's going on.</p><p>My breaths come in pants, every inhale and exhale full with lust and longing. Deprived, too. My eyes trail up her body, landing on her lips. They're plump, tinted pink from what I smell pink lemonade. I move onto her nose, then her red cheeks, then her eyes. She looks into me caringly, which contrasts from the dark, dilated pupils of hers.</p><p>"Do you want to kiss me?" She whispers, leaning her face into mine. It isn't a teasing, "do you want to kiss me," it's more of a question for consent. She wants to know if I'm okay with her kissing me. Which I am.</p><p>I nod my head, keeping my eyes glued to hers as she continues to lean in. I swallow the lump in my throat, keeping in my heart along with the sputtering of physical contact facts that are threatening to fly past my lips.</p><p>She brings her lips down to mine and presses a soft kiss to my lips, the buttery feeling of her lip balm stuck onto my lips from the first kiss. She moves back, analyzing the uneasiness set on my face. I only want to kiss her, make out with her for now. I'm not ready to have sex with her. Not now, but of course soon. I just need time.</p><p>"We can just kiss, angel, I'm fine with that," she assures me.</p><p>I bite down on my lip, my jaw stilling from the overly emotional information she's brought up. Her telling me she's okay with only kissing may not be emotional for others, but for me it's different. I'm not the kind of person who fully gives themselves to another person, and feeling pressured into sex is one of the worst feelings anyone could ever have. That is why all I can feel in the moment is elated, because she understands.</p><p>I lean into her and continue the kiss, moving my lips passionately against her lemonade tasting mouth. I lift my hands to her waist, gripping her sides as she pushes me against the couch. Her hands move from my hair to my face, holding it between her palms like a sandwich.</p><p>She giggles between each kiss she lays, her teeth grazing my lips as she does so. She removes her lips, tugging on my bottom lip for a split second before returning to the intense yet sweet kiss. Y/N is bold, naughty when it comes to moments like these. I like it. It balances her sweet personality. </p><p>My hands trail underneath her t-shirt, her skin burning my hands as I grip onto her as though she might burst into dust. She breaks the kiss for a moment, trailing her wet lips down my jaw, leaving kisses in her wake. She feels good, so good my eyes roll to the back of my head.</p><p>She sucks on my neck softly, careful to not leave a hickey. She murmurs small praises, some being louder than a whisper. One being...</p><p>"You're my angel," in a low register. "My only angel."</p><p>+++</p><p>OKAY! I know I haven't published in four days and I come back with this... bad piece of writing, but I promise It'll get better. I'm sorry for the short make out sesh at the end, it is twelve in the morning (almost one) and I have been writing for the entire day. I know I should have written more, I just want to save it all for the next chapter (which will be a smut chapter.)</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Thank You, Trauma</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>warnings: mentions of drug abuse. nsfw  (also, no hate on the words I use. REMEMBER, this is in Spencer's POV, therefore I am using words/terms I think he would use.) </p><p>Time Jump= 2 Weeks</p><p>After a week and six days of talking to Y/N, we finally went on a date. It was amazing, to say the least.</p><p>I have never been a good date planner, which is embarrassing due to my age. I hadn't been on a date prior to the one we had last Saturday, and I had never done my own research on ideal locations, so I was no help.</p><p>Y/N didn't mind me having zero clue of where to go though, she was extremely sweet with finding a perfect place for our first date. She asked me if I preferred a romantic, formal setting, and I told her that I didn't mind at all. She would say "you're no help, Spence," teasingly, of course. She found a place after a short moment, showing me a retro, 80's themed diner.</p><p>I agreed to the spot, and we headed to the diner that night. It was quickly planned, but we both enjoyed sitting in a booth that took us both back to the decade we were born in. She blabbered on about answering the most humiliating emails and I sat there listening, eating my salty and greasy fries. Listening to her speak was the highlight of my night, so I didn't complain one bit.</p><p>Her voice was like classical music, soft and sweet yet loud and aggressive. It was a rollercoaster listening to the stories she had to tell, watching as her expressions and tone switched from joyful to indignant to the lowest of lows. Her sputtering the load of words was like listening to an isolated teenager who had pent up thoughts and emotions. She's always had Clara, but she must not listen or she simply isn't the best of friends.</p><p>                                                                                                        ✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲</p><p>"If I knew you when I was younger-"</p><p>"And we were the same age."</p><p>She rolls her eyes jokingly, dipping her fry into the diners special sauce. "Yes, if we were around the same age too, I would have been your friend. One hundred percent."</p><p>I raise my eyebrows, a curious look spreading across my face as she continues to look at me, grinning widely. "Really? You would be friends with me?"</p><p>She shrugs her shoulders, taking a bite out of the fry she's dipped. "Yes, of course. You're cool, and I'm pretty sure you've always been."</p><p>I smile, thinking of the slang word "cheesin'" Morgan used. I grin so widely the corners of my lips begin to ache from the pulling. And in this moment, I wonder how I look at her, what she thinks of me and my smile. I think I look awfully genius-like, wearing this black vest over my white dress shirt. I should dress more casual so I can be taken more seriously and not like a twelve year old boy.</p><p>That's probably what I look like right now- a twelve year old boy with a smile that hasn't aged one bit. I hope she takes me seriously, obviously when I am being serious. Though I know she would. She's respectful, and doesn't cross boundaries unless told so.</p><p>"I find you pretty interesting right now too. It's cool to have that many degrees and only be twenty-six," she tells me, leaning forward in the booth. "I have a thing for men with degrees."</p><p>My eyes widen for a moment, processing the kink she's just informed me of and bringing facts about such kink to mind. I bring my hands together before beginning to speak, clearing my throat as well. "That certain kink is actually called sapiosexuality. It is where individuals are sexually attracted to people that hold extreme intelligence or multiple degrees," I sputter, earning a nod of consensus as I finish.</p><p>"Ah," she says, biting down on her lip. "I think I just really have a thing for men named "Spencer Reid"."</p><p>She winks, and the blush that was steadily crawling up my neck now shoots to all corners of my face, painting me like a clown. I must look like one, too. "I... I, yeah I... that makes sense. I hold three doctorate degrees and two bachelors. So your kink makes a lot of sense actually."</p><p>She laughs, dusting her fingers off before reaching up to my face, cupping my cheeks with her slightly greasy hands. I should feel disgusted by her actions, move back and shove her hands away for being covered in germs, but I don't do so. I let her caress my face with her salted fingers.</p><p>"You are the most awkward man I have ever met," she muses, offering a crooked smile as she looks into my eyes.</p><p>"Is that a good thing?" I question, an overwhelming sense of curiousness and uneasiness setting in.</p><p>"Yes," she states. "I would never make fun of you, angel, ever."</p><p>"Never?" I ask her, yearning for reassurance.</p><p>She retrieves her hands and grabs a fry, bringing it up to my mouth. I open my mouth, and she plops it inside. "Never ever. That's what lame people do."</p><p>My heart thumps in my chest, so loud and heavy I can hear every single beat ring in my ear. Her plainly sitting in her seat, looking me in my eyes sets fire to my skin. It's a miracle I haven't shot up and left from the nervousness and lack of words I seem to find. I'm usually able to talk about anything and everything, but right now my brain has gone blank.</p><p>The IQ of 187 I hold has simply blown up into fragments of dust.</p><p>I munch on the fry she's plopped in my mouth, absentmindedly fiddling with my hands as she continues to gaze at me, her smile growing at every nose scrunch. I fail to distinguish if she has begun to like me, or she's secretly making fun of me. She isn't making fun of you, I tell myself to avoid the mind eating thoughts.</p><p>I know the answer to her relentless staring, despite seeming clueless. The never ending problem is that I may know how to solve others problems and questions, but not my own. That's completely normal though.</p><p>"Did you know that the reason people stare is because the eyes and facial features provide useful information you can attain without having to tell the others about it. It's almost like you can learn about someone by simply looking into their eyes," I sputter. "That's why you're staring at me right now."</p><p>She squints her eyes, keeping them on my face as she leans down to take a sip from her milkshake. "So, what do you think I've gathered about you?"</p><p>I swallow the growing lump in my throat before answering, collecting my thoughts. What she's gathered must be obvious. "I am an awkward adult man who becomes frightened when speaking to a woman. Little or bad experience with the opposite sex has lead them to have issues with trusting a potential partner."</p><p>She scoffs in amazement, shocked at what I've assumed she's thought of. She clicks her tongue, nodding while her eyebrows raise, a look of oblivion spread across her face. I may have forgotten that she isn't a profiler for the FBI, unlike me.</p><p>"I thought you were an awkward man who's had enough experience to know what he's doing. And even if he doesn't have experience, he seems put together, disregarding the redness on his cheeks that signifies that I'm making him nervous."</p><p>I'm startled at how well she's strung her words together, how profile-esque she sounds. "I thought you went to college for filmmaking," I say although I know the answer.</p><p>She shakes her head, guiding pieces of her hair from her face. "It's actually quite difficult to read you, I just keep getting to a dead end," she claims, her smile disappearing into a frown. "But that's okay! We've just met."</p><p>I flash her a sheepish smile while instantaneous shame courses into me. I wish I could open up to someone right when I meet them, tell them all about my life and traumatic events without having to relive every single moment. I want to. I desire telling her such secrets, but it's difficult and lethargic.</p><p>It'll all happen soon, I hope.</p><p>                                                                                                           ✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲</p><p>"Okay, now that I know who your first kiss was, how about," Y/N looks at me slyly, "who took your virginity?"</p><p>I choke on the water in my cup, the liquid burning my nose as it flies out of my mouth. I cover my mouth and nose for a second, coughing to attempt getting rid of the burning sensation thumping everywhere.</p><p>Y/N laughs, yet leans over and takes my head in her hands, bringing it to her chest. "You okay?" she asks, her chest rising and falling as she continues to laugh.</p><p>I nod, letting out a couple of coughs of confirmation. "Yeah, I uh, just caught me off guard," I respond. I know I won't get away from telling her, or maybe I can, but telling her is important. Me telling her would be building a stronger trusting bond, I tell myself.</p><p>Not many know about who I lost my virginity to, because I haven't slept with anyone in almost two years, and it isn't the team's business either. They all suspected that I had lost it to Elle, but that was entirely false.</p><p>I experimented... with a friend who I trusted very much. I'm grateful that I lost it to him. He was a good person. "I... Well I lost it to one of my friends. His name was Ethan," I finally say. I remove my head from her chest and look up at her, catching the unsurprised look that's on her face. "You don't look surprised."</p><p>"Why should I be?" she asks me, lacking the judgement I thought she would have. "Because you lost your virginity to a man? Spence, when I told you I wouldn't make fun of you, I meant it."</p><p>I shift my gaze to the entrance of my room, staring deeply at the black walls and black railing of my bed. I feel shame for thinking she wouldn't accept me for losing my virginity to a man. She has been understanding since we've met, therefore she should continue the path to... wherever this leads to.</p><p>"Oh," I murmur, bouncing my eyes around the room before they land back on hers. "So, how about you?"</p><p>"Who did I lose my virginity to?"</p><p>"Mhm."</p><p>Y/N bites down on her lip, taking in a long breath. She looks around the room, like she's digging deeply for an answer. I scan her face, noticing her trembling lip before she begins to speak. She's distressed, she doesn't want to answer the question.</p><p>I trail my hand up to hers, lacing my fingers one by one with hers. She's stiff, but falls into comfort after a second. "Well, I was dating this one guy when I was eighteen, and he was like one of those rich guys who would drink and smoke for every meal of the day." She releases her hand from mine, instead playing with my fingers. "And one day, we were hanging out in my dorm when we started making out. It was normal, you know, kissing and unclothing yourself. It stayed that way until he started being really rough with me. I didn't say anything because I thought that's how sex was supposed to be, rough. Obviously not, but I didn't know."</p><p>"You don't have to continue if you don't want to," I whisper to her, leaning my head to the side to check her eyes which are kept downcast.</p><p>"No, I should tell you this," she protests. She inhales shakily, a short silence washing over us. Then, Y/N speaks up again. "After it was all done, he went on his way and left me there, bruises on my neck and red marks on my face from his hand. People thought he... y'know, but he didn't. I just let him do it because that's how I thought it was supposed to go."</p><p>I take my hand from hers and raise it to her chin, holding it between my fingers. Although her face is pointed up at mine, her eyes remain on her hands, which have gathered my pants in absence for my hand. "Hey, Y/N, look at me." Her eyes slowly travel to mine, her pupils shaking while she finds where they're supposed to land. "I will take care of you, okay? Nothing bad will happen to you while I'm here."</p><p>She leans into me, so I remove my fingers from her chin. I scoot closer to her and open my arms, allowing her to rest her head on my chest. I wrap my arms around her slumped body, hugging her tightly so she feels protected, like I promised her.</p><p>We stay that way for a moment, her head resting on my chest and my chin resting on her head, allowing our breaths to fill the room. We put the questions on pause, taking a break from the retrieval of events one of tried to stuff away.</p><p>I think she's fallen asleep by the way her arms loosen around my torso, her breaths becoming deep, but she hasn't, because she speaks at the end of a silence. "Spencer, why do you always wear long sleeved shirts? Even when it's insanely warm."</p><p>I open my eyes, keeping them glued to the black railing of my bed. I wonder if I should tell Y/N why, finally bring the issue I've dealt with for so long into the conversation. We've pried into one another's lives yet I've failed to tell her about the dilaudid, about how it ruined my life.</p><p>I can trust her though, I can. Y/N seals everything, she locks all secrets between us in a safe and throws the key into a deep dark ocean. I inhale deeply and exhale, doing so five or so times until I think I'm ready to tell her. "You want to know?"</p><p>"If you want to tell me," Y/N whispers, moving back on the couch. She looks into my eyes, her already dull smile disappearing even further.</p><p>I gulp down my heart, keeping it from flying out of my mouth. I inch my fingers down to the cuff of my sweater, sliding the fabric up to reveal the needle scars left on my forearm. They used to be bruised, so dark in color you couldn't even tell where the puncture wound was. They've now faded into light pink scars, still visible from the multiple times I would inject the same location.</p><p>I flick my eyes up to Y/N's, catching to see if she's lost in what to do. Her eyes are glass-like, brimming with tears from the sight she's trying to process. This must be a lot to take in- a past addiction. Her eyes crease and a tear falls down her cheek, landing on the palm of my hand.</p><p>She looks up at me, her already stained cheeks glimmering under the yellow lights of my apartment. I need to tell her that I'm okay, assure her that I've been doing good so far, but she must tell by the lack of bruises provided.</p><p>Y/N glances at me, then returns to staring at my arm, her eyes continuing to shed tears. She becomes lost in the scars left on my arm, but then she regains her focus, blinking rapidly. She reaches for my arm and lift it up to her lips, flicking her eyes to mine to make sure she could do what she was going to do.</p><p>I nod.</p><p>She places soft kisses on my forearm, traveling up to the scars. They're so sweet, delicate as though I might break if she presses too hard. She continues to leave kisses on my pale skin in spite of the fact that I am burning. She removes her lips and skips onto my neck, peppering my skin with kisses, reaching my jaw and chin.</p><p>I close my eyes, inhaling a deep and shaky breath from the new feeling. "Is this okay?" she asks, lifting her eyes to mine. I nod once more, allowing her to continue. She returns to kissing along my jaw and neck, sucking lightly on my neck, cautious not to leave hickeys.</p><p>I emit a quiet moan, suffering under her touch. She's been teasing me- avoiding my mouth- and I've suffered from the lack of touch my lips have received. I've allowed her to do what she pleases, with me holding some of the control as well. I have no worry of what Y/N will be doing, but I want her to kiss me, touch my body until we're laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling while we pant.</p><p>Y/N finally lays her lips on mine, her fingers navigating up my chest and neck, twisting into a piece of my hair. She leans into me, the kiss laced with fervor as she pushes me back against the leather couch. I grasp her waist, holding tightly while I stand up, Y/N reciprocating the movement.</p><p>My right hand is gripping her waist while my left is on her lower back, guiding her into my room. As we pass the threshold of my room, she deepens the kiss by slipping her tongue into my mouth, earning a groan from me. There's no need to close the door, but I kick it closed anyway.</p><p>Y/N locks her fingers behind my neck and pulls me to the bed, her knees buckling as she hits the side. She falls back on the mattress, laughing as our lips disconnect. She sits up on the bed, searching for my eyes underneath the bright Sunday light.</p><p>Once she finds them, she begins to undress, sliding her loose sweatshirt over her head. She reaches behind her, unclasping her bra and letting the straps cascade down her shoulders. I look away after a moment of staring, cursing at myself for staring at her breasts for far too long.</p><p>The rustling of clothes stops momentarily, and Y/N speaks up. "You can look at me, angel. I want to do this," she whispers, her voice remaining steady, pleading for me to look at her.</p><p>I slowly turn back to her, resting my eyes on her half naked body. She gives an easy smile, bobbing her head as an indication for me to follow. My stomach tenses but I begin undressing myself, starting with the Cal-tech sweatshirt that's two sizes too big for me.</p><p>I slide the sweatshirt over my body and throw it to the corner where she's thrown her clothes as well, the bunch adding up as we continue to undress ourselves. I pull down my sweatpants, dropping them to the floor and stepping out. I look at her, her mouth practically hanging open. I wonder why she's so shocked, but I follow her eyes down to my boxers, realizing that she's staring at my clothed erection.</p><p>I laugh, hiding the emotions that are ripping through me. "What?" she exclaims. Y/N lifts her fingers, making a "come here" motion, following with those exact words. I oblige, but first open my nightstand and take out a condom. I hide it in the palm of my hand, though I don't have to hide it from her. It should actually be shown, to make it evident that I'm using protection.</p><p>I stand above her by the bed, and she scoots forward, wrapping her hands around my waist. She lays kisses on my abdomen, laying them on my happy trail. She softly chuckles against my skin, sending shudders down my spine. After a split second, her grip around my waist tightens and I meet her eyes, seeing the same consenting eyes I met not too long ago.</p><p>"Do you really want to do this? Because if you don't-"</p><p>I lower myself down and pounce on her lips, shutting her up. Her hands shoot up at the abrupt act, but they slowly wrap around my neck. I push her down on the bed, herself scooting up along with my attempts. I break the kiss momentarily, taking the condom in my hand and bringing it to my mouth, biting on the corner while I rip away the wrapping.</p><p>I look into her eyes while I pull down my boxers, taking in the goddess that lays on my bed, her hands to her sides while her body is exposed. Her nipples are hard and I can see the goosebumps that take over her skin, although the dimness in the room darkens almost everything. Y/N looks perfect, golden and shimmering as though she's a star in the dark night sky. No words can be enough to describe her, despite my attempts.</p><p>I roll the condom onto my hardened cock. I then take my spot on top of her, my body shaking lightly as I gaze at her for what feels like the millionth time today. Y/N is simply too breathtaking not to stare at.</p><p>Y/N lifts her head, giving me a suffocated kiss. It's like all of the air in the room has been vacuumed, sealed tightly so all we breathe is one another's breaths. It's calming though, which sounds absurd, but it's what I can come up with in the moment.</p><p>"Do you want to feel me, angel?" Y/N questions after the deep kiss, her warm hand trailing down to my hardened cock. She reaches and palms it, causing a string of moans to fly out of my wet mouth.</p><p>Even with me being on top of her, she's still dominating me. I enjoy being the submissive person I am, I enjoy following orders, especially in bed. "Yes... Yes I do."</p><p>"You sure?" she repeats in need of confirmation.</p><p>"Yes, I'm sure."</p><p>"Then go ahead, baby," Y/N murmurs.</p><p>She helps lining me up with her entrance, and I close my eyes shut for a split second before thrusting myself inside of her. She throws her head back, her mouth falling open so wide, as if she's a sinking swimmer gasping for air. Her hands make their way to my back, scratching after each thrust.</p><p>Pleasure courses through me, quickly replacing the nervousness. I slowly move in and out of her, feeling her hips buck up with my acceleration. She feels so good I can't imagine how life was without her, her feeling around me and me inside of her. Sex can be such a dirty act, something people's faces contort just speaking of, but this, this is a beautiful thing. Us both sweating with pleasure, our bodies flush against one another as we steadily send one another into orgasms.</p><p>I lean down between strokes, leaving sloppy kisses along her jaw and stretched neck. This only causes her moans to grow louder, her nails digging deeper into my skin. Such a burning yet blissful sensation.</p><p>"Harder, angel," she breaths. "Please, you feel so good."</p><p>I deepen my thrusts, now pounding into her. I wrap my slender fingers in her hair, pulling gently while my left hand is resting above her head. I flick my eyes down to her face, beautifully watching her as her eyes flutter shut out of pure pleasure (I only hope). She bites down on her lip, pausing the whines that roll off of her tongue so beautifully.</p><p>My breaths come out in pants, but I reconnect my mouth to hers to shut myself up. She whimpers against my lips, reverberating all around the inside of my mouth.</p><p>I hit her so deep, so fast each time I thrust inside, the bed shakes so hard I think it might just break. But it won't. It's sturdy. Her back arches just as I whine out loudly, her name bouncing off of the walls and hitting my face like a smothered pillow.</p><p>"F-Fuck," I exclaim, the curse word so unfamiliar in my vocabulary that it shocks me.</p><p>She digs her nails into my back, sure to leave dark red marks afterwards. She moves her sharp nails up and down my skin, this time resting in my hair, all twisted in each curl. I look at her again (again and again and again) making sure she's okay with how deep I'm going.</p><p>She chuckles once she catches me, her smile so wide and shiny it blinds me. Her attraction has blinded me already, but her teeth add onto the effect. She's so dangerous to me, in the best way possible. "Oh pretty baby," she whine as her head moves up and down on the green comforter, "you feel so... so good. So good I'm al- almost close."</p><p>"Oh yeah?" I muse within a pant.</p><p>"Mhm, so so close."</p><p>I grip onto her hair tighter, sinking so deeply inside of her that I begin worrying for her ability to walk.</p><p>Y/N tightens around my cock, her breaths so erratic. I tense up, my breaths pausing as I reach my climax. "I-I'm going to come," I whine desperately.</p><p>She rolls her head back and I catch a glimpse of her rolling eyes come to a halt. She slips her hand from my back to my face, directing it on my face. "Look at me while you come," she reprimands. "I wanna see your pretty little face."</p><p>I nod and I continue with my last thrusts, my mouth parting to allow curse words to flow out. I keep my eyes on hers, releasing my load into the condom as I fall into my orgasm. Y/N reaches hers as well, pulling so tightly on my hair that it only worsens my growing headache.</p><p>She moans loudly, my name sputtering out of her mouth with accompanying curse words. I gently fall on top of her, laying my head on the crook of her neck. I'm still inside of her, but she seems to pay no mind.</p><p>Y/N's breaths slowly return to normal, yet still remain loud. "That was," she pauses to find an answer. "Good. Did you, um ... like it?"</p><p>I press a kiss on her collarbone, responding to the question that should be obvious. "It was amazing, pretty girl."</p><p>She chuckles, the shake of the bed signifying that she's sunken her head into the mattress. "I was just scared that you wouldn't like it," she tells me. "The dominant stuff. And just doing it with me. I- I know I'm probably not the ideal body type for you."</p><p>I pause in awe, blinking rapidly to try and register what she's said. It pains me to see that she has her own insecurities. I may think she's a beautiful women who was carefully created, but she thinks otherwise. Y/N has covered her insecurities with confidence, I've known that piece of information since I met her. I want her to feel like the goddess I see her as.</p><p>Golden. That's what she is. Glowing brighter than any star I've seen.</p><p>I pull out of her, earning a whimper from her end. I hook my fingers underneath her chin and move her face to mine. "You are perfect. And I promise you that I loved every part of what just happened."</p><p>"Pinky promise me," Y/N murmurs, so low it's almost inaudible.</p><p>I chuckle, the idea cute and personal. I unhook my fingers from her chin and extend my pinky to hers. She laces her pinky finger with mine and squeezes tightly.</p><p>"I pinky promise, pretty girl." </p><p>                                                                                                                 ✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲</p><p>They did it :D. I tried to make the time jump short yet long enough for them to reach the having sex point. Also, yes I know my smut writing is trash and I know I used words not everyone uses (like 'cock') but this is in Spencer's POV. I think he would use those terms, rather than 'dick', etc. Lastly, I will not be updating for almost a week because I will be away and I do not think I will have time to write. I'M SORRY!!! but I promise when I'm back I will try to write as much as possible. K! I love you guys&lt;3 </p><p>                                                    - Keyly</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Worst Nightmare</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>chapter 06.</p><p>warnings: mentions of drug intake- specifically through injection (dilaudid)- entomophobia.</p><p>I've grown attached. I thought that I could refrain myself from the lust that would come from meeting Y/N. It was easy as simply talking to her as a friend and keeping the relationship that way.</p><p>But it wasn't as easy as that. Obviously.</p><p>She's poisonous in the best form. Her smile kills me every time she flashes it, and her face and curvature of features melts me like ice cream on a July day in Las Vegas. The way her hips sway when she walks everywhere, especially down the hall to her bedroom.</p><p>The problem is though, it is way too early for me to be as smitten as I am. We've been in contact for almost a month now- the second of September making it a month- and she's already driven me insane. In the infatuated manner of insane.</p><p>I can't find a way to get Y/N out of my mind. Maybe it's because I haven't tried to put an end to the coursing thoughts, or because she has truly become attached to my brain. I don't mind her slowly killing me with her beauty and infinite love and kindness, because It's Y/N, but I should at least attempt to find a way.</p><p>Such as those calls I make every hour and thirty minutes. The first being at 9:30 because she wakes up at 8:45; Then at 10:45, 12:15, 1:45, up until it is time to go home. The calls last for eight minutes and forty five seconds every hour and a half, which means fifty-eight minutes and ten seconds are removed from my day. But, I do not simply call her at my desk, I stand and move to a private area.</p><p>That is the problem.</p><p>It takes me three minutes to stand, clear my desk, head to a private area, and dial Y/N's number. After the call, I lean against the kitchen counter daydreaming. The acts of daydreaming removes another five minutes from my day. Calling Y/N seven times a day multiplies those five minutes into thirty-five.</p><p>Not to worry, it is only five minutes.</p><p>After I have taken my lengthy five minutes to vividly dream of Y/N, I stand straight up and head back to my desk. Walking back to my designated area takes me approximately two minutes, adding up to a total of fourteen minutes each time I do so. Leading me into a total of two hours and eight minutes removed from every single work day.</p><p>I attempt to cover the consumed time with overused excuses that much of the team fails to believe anymore. They are all aware of the time I take out of my day to call her, but in the beginning I would excuse myself for "emergency calls." Not every call was an emergency of course- little to none were actually- but when it comes to romantic excuses, my mind shrivels up and loses all smarts.</p><p>Thankfully JJ has dropped the truck full of questions every day, as well as Emily for the most part, but Derek has continued to tease and bother me. To be quite honest, it is excruciatingly bothersome. I try to sweep the continuous questions and jokes under the rug, but they've become too invading that it's not as easy to shrug off. I don't like any of it.</p><p>The team takes me as being overly sensitive for breaking away from my "normal" character, but when someone is asking how your potential partner is in bed or if she's touchy is something no one would be comfortable answering. I deserve privacy. And speaking of my sexual life is not a topic I like to bring up or speak of during work. Even though I'm close to each member.</p><p>I wish I could talk to JJ or Emily about Y/N, more than how she looks under the sun or how bright she is- both personality and complexion. I don't need help on how to talk to her, kiss her, or have sexual intercourse, because I know enough to go through with each one, but I would enjoy hearing about a woman's standpoint. It's awfully interesting hearing about how they feel when a man remembers small facts about them or how it feels when their partner rubs their knees with their hands. So interesting</p><p>Problem number 129: I know so much yet know so little.</p><p>✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲</p><p>"Spencer," calls the belonging voice of Y/N.</p><p>I slowly blink, squeezing them so tightly that I almost see a new world on the backs of my eyelids.</p><p>"Spencer," she calls again, giggling and chuckling.</p><p>I finally open my eyes, looking up to see the cracks of sunlight beaming into the wooden, sweat scented room. I turn my head, wiping my face on the dirt filled floor, so nasty yet I lay there as though I've taken defeat.</p><p>I look at my arm, focusing on my pale forearm which is painted with marks of needles. It takes me a moment to register the moment and scenery, but when I do I can already sense my chest tightening.</p><p>A nightmare again.</p><p>I try to move my arm, lift it in a way to guide away the piece of hair sticking to my forehead. It must be blood. The smell so burning and intoxicating, so much more displeasing than real life. I try again, attempting to lift my arm with all of my force, but I fail.</p><p>"Spencer!"</p><p>I bounce my eyes around the room, looking out for Y/N who I keep hearing echo in the room. She's nowhere to be found, despite the countless amount of times I've looked around. It's all my head, though it's difficult for me to believe that. These dreams are so surreal that I fail to distinguish the dream from reality.</p><p>"Y/N, please," I wail, desperate for her to come out of hiding and take me away from this nightmare. Take me away from Raphael, who's soon to enter the room. He always does. Always. And it's a pain because I know Tobias is hidden in that body somewhere, thumping against himself screaming for help. He isn't the monster that's taken over him. He never was. He was Tobias.</p><p>"Spencer, I'm here."</p><p>I look to my left, right, up and down yet fail to see her. Her voice is soft which is the only sound that calms me. I focus on her low breaths, sweet filled I can almost smell the pink lemonade.</p><p>I avert my focus to the side of my arm, noticing the small bugs that crawl around the floor. The floor has become so full of dust and dirt that bugs have found their way to a new home. I want to respond, kick against the floor or squirm out of the room, but my body is stiff like a rock.</p><p>I know that if I pay too much attention to the harmless bugs, I will trick myself into thinking they are all over me, and I do not wish to see or feel that. I glance back at my pale arm, the veins already harmed by the injection of Dilaudid. I know what this will lead to, and I begin to cry. Cry out of frustration, cry out of the pleasure and satisfaction I finally received in life after going back and taking those stupid vials of Hydromorphone.</p><p>I wish I hadn't gone back, taken those vials. If only I had felt differently about the drugs maybe I would have been different. Or maybe if I had died I wouldn't have to struggle as much as I am now. But even then, realizing what has happened to me, I still believe the others have gone through far more than me. Far more.</p><p>I close my eyes in hopes that I will wake up in the office with another stack of paperwork on my desk, but no. I am still stuck in the moment I recall as traumatic. Still hearing the voices in my ear, so delicate yet angering. I want to turn and punch whoever is making me think Y/N is near me, scold them for doing such a harmful thing.</p><p>"Y/N, please I need to get out of here," I say, louder this time.</p><p>I cry, wail, cry until no tears fall out of my eyes. There must be a puddle of salty tears underneath my cheek, soaking the wood, practically cleaning the surface. I turn my face to the other side, which was a bad idea.</p><p>I wince, jolting back at the impact of the wood on the wound on the left side of my face. My neck hurts along with the shooting pain in my wound, surprising due to such force in a body that cannot move.</p><p>"Spencer, wake up."</p><p>"I can't."</p><p>"Wake up," they admonish, "he's coming."</p><p>I begin to tremble, my heart beat intensifying and the sound of an imaginary clock filling the silent room. My organs shake along with my heart and every single bone in my body. I want to escape, finally reach the end of the tunnel into peace.</p><p>Lately it has felt as though I will never attain that happiness I have always yearned for; I'll always run into obstacles and an elevated amount of trouble that I will never be able to forget about. I try to be an optimist, think about all of the positive outcomes that could come from being injected with dilaudid. And all I can think about is Y/N.</p><p>So I focus on her, every single detail about her that I can recall while under distress. Her eyes, her hair, her favorite sweatshirt that is "fluffy like a dog" on the inside. The blue light glasses she has on her bedside table that are on the brink of breaking. Every small fact she has told me about runs through my head, at such an accelerated speed that the room spins and turns.</p><p>I smile at the slow disappearance of the room, even chuckling softly at the colors fade from my vision. I can see Raphael(Tobias) enter the room, but I only laugh. I laugh because I no longer have to face the needle that was planning on entering my body. I don't have to be filled with the drug that was beginning to take its toll on my frail body.</p><p>I then realize that Y/N is the reason I left the dream. Whenever I think of her, my mind wanders to the laugh I hear and the hands I get to hold every time we are together. Y/N leads me into the peace I am destined to attain.</p><p>"Spencer," the voice says again. "Spencer, hey wake up."</p><p>I flutter my eyelashes open, taking in the woman hovering above me. I reach out to her, grabbing the air that was suffocating a second ago. She leans into me and wraps her hands around my stiff body, so tightly her warmth courses through me.</p><p>"Are you okay?" Y/N asks me, longing for an answer. She's aware of the nightmare that's just happened, therefore asking the "what happened" question is not necessary, but she's sent herself to ask me if I'm okay.</p><p>I like that about her. She knows what's wrong, and maybe she's even discovered what is ticking you off, but she still wants to ask for reassurance. Y/N wants to know that what she's thinking is correct, and if it isn't, she'll sit by your side until you tell her every single detail.</p><p>"I'm okay," I respond. "Just the worst nightmare ever."</p><p>"Come here," Y/N tells me as she sits down on the far end of the couch, her arms extended as if waiting for me to lay on her lap.</p><p>I follow her instructions and stand up, rearranging the pillows before laying down on the couch. My body is far too long to lay perfectly comfortable on her couch, so I bring my legs up to my chest to mimic a fetus.</p><p>She runs her hands through my hair, combing back my side part. Y/N adores my hair being slicked back, though she says she likes it both ways.</p><p>She leans down and plants a kiss on my forehead, a gesture I hope serves as a reminder that she likes me, enjoys my company.</p><p>"Whatever happened, just know that I am here for you, 'kay?"</p><p>I snuggle on her lap, nodding my head softly as I begin to drift back into sleep. "M'kay," I reply, so hushed it is almost inaudible.</p><p>Y/N plants another kiss on my forehead, more delicate than the last one. This one sending me a deep message I can translate into words. She means well, overloading me with infinite sweetness she holds in a bag like fairies hold dust. Y/N wants me to be happy, to be in a place where I am no longer wary of my actions.</p><p>And following the continuous three words I use to explain everything about Y/N... I like that.</p><p>✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. A Kiss Before Tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>chapter 07.</p><p>warnings: emetophobia, mentions of addiction.</p><p>He's having a nightmare again, you whisper to yourself, worrying over his heavy breathing and parted mouth. Spencer has been out of it recently, taking far more naps than usual; but they all end in waking up distraughtly, every single one including a nightmare. They only happen when he's taking a nap though, which puzzles you.</p><p>You wonder why the nightmares only haunt him while he takes a nap, but you come to a conclusion that it's because he's sleeping momentarily. Whatever happened to him that has caused him these terrors mustn't have been for long. Two minutes, because that's how long they last for.</p><p>Spencer had one last night while he was in your apartment, his body still but his eyes squeezing shut as though he was trying to hide from someone or something. After waking up, you forced him to stay the night and you watched him fall asleep, which sounds insane, but you were worried. Thankfully, he didn't have another terror.</p><p>You fell asleep with his head on your chest, your fingers running through his wavy brown hair as you hushed to him (although he was already deep in sleep). You wanted some form of noise to distract you from the whimpers and wails that remained in your head. It was terrifying, and it still is. Every time he shifts in his sleep or makes a noise, you jolt up, frightened at what's happening or waiting to happen.</p><p>This time, he's moving way more than usual. Spencer doesn't usually move his arms or legs, so this occurrence is rare. You scrunch your eyebrows together, turning your head at his movements. His mouth opens and closes, as if he wants to say something. But you can't hear him.</p><p>You try not to wake him from the nightmare, in case he's gotten to a point where his heart rate has increasingly accelerated. You press your hand on his chest just in case, making sure he's in a state of torment. And his heart is beating so fast you become scared it might burst through his chest. So you wait for him to wake up on his own.</p><p>You flick your eyes to the clock on the wall, checking the time. 11:30 A.M. You have a "tea party" with your mom at 2:30 which means there's three hours left before you have to go. Spencer fell asleep twenty minutes ago, and he began tossing and turning three minutes ago. He won't last much longer in the dream that's tearing his mind to shreds.</p><p>Suddenly, his breathing becomes more rapid than before and his right arm begins to move aggressively. "Please," he whispers, pleadingly. "Please, I don't want it."</p><p>Your breathing stops for a moment, catching in your throat as you flick your eyes back down to him. He's jabbing your stomach, but that's the least of your problems. Spencer moves a bit more, his grunts and cries turning frustrated as the seconds pass by.</p><p>Then he wakes. His eyes open instantly, glassy under the dim light of your apartment. He stares into your eyes for a moment, so deeply into you as though he's trying to grip onto something real. But the staring doesn't last for more than a minute, because he stands up and makes a beeline to the kitchen.</p><p>You quickly turn your head, your eyes finding nowhere to land but his head in the trash can. You have no reaction to what's happening; you sit on the couch, staring at him dump the contents of his stomach into the black trash can. You want to stand and help him, but you can't. You can't move- it's almost like you're paralyzed.</p><p>Your breaths are steady, as though nothing happened in the past minute and a half. All you do is stare at Spencer's thin body arch as he releases everything he's had today. You don't see anything, but you know it isn't pleasant.</p><p>He finishes after a minute and you finally gain the ability to stand and help him. You run to the kitchen and grab a towel from one of your drawers and take it to the sink, running it under warm water. You hand him the towel and he bring it to his mouth, cleaning away anything left on his face.</p><p>You offer him a soft smile while he cleans up, the message in the turn of your lips an apology for not being able to do anything. He removes the cloth from the lower half of his face and returns the smile, much softer than yours.</p><p>You remember you have drinks, so you turn around, heading towards the large refrigerator in the middle of the kitchen. You open the door and look through, resting your eyes on the lower shelf.</p><p>"What do you want to drink?" You ask, glancing back at him. "I have gatorade, water, apple and orange juice..."</p><p>"Water please," he replies.</p><p>"Got it." You open the bottom shelf of the refrigerator and take out a bottle of water, holding it tightly in your hand in case it slips through. You push on the shelf and close the door, turning to the awkward standing Spencer hidden next to you. You hand him the wet bottle and he instantly opens it, gurgling down the water in what feels like two seconds.</p><p>He closes the cap on the bottle and throws it in the green recycling bin next to him. Good, he's finally thrown objects meant to be recycled into the recycling bin. It's taken a minute to get him to do that.</p><p>You bite down on your lip and flick your eyes to his, which are already set on yours. You can see the darkness of fright that's changed his usual honey-hazel eyes. He won't tell you what's going on, even after you told him that you would never ever judge him.</p><p>And it isn't easy to read Spencer; it's almost impossible. He keeps everything locked inside of him like money in a safe. He doesn't want anyone else to know what he's keeping a secret. Not even you.</p><p>It must be something serious if he hasn't told you yet. But you don't attack him for keeping it a secret, because you have secrets of your own that you haven't told him of yet.</p><p>"Something is wrong, Spence," you whisper. Your voice is strong, laced with worry and confidence. Confidence that you're right. "You never had nightmares in the beginning."</p><p>He huffs an agitated sigh. "I had nightmares before, they were just under control."</p><p>"Which means they aren't under control now," you shoot.</p><p>"Yes," he states. "No, I- They still are under control."</p><p>You knit your eyebrows, shaking your head at his breaking expression. He knows his nightmares aren't under control. You bite down on your lip, taking in a long breath through your nose. "What are they about?" </p><p>He moves around the kitchen and begins towards the laundry room. You follow behind him at a steady pace, slow and quiet enough to not disturb his unsettled mood. "They're nothing, I promise."</p><p>Your face contorts into the ugliest look of confusion, your brain fogging in all kinds of reasons as to why he won't tell you. "Spencer, if you don't tell me then I can't help you."</p><p>He reaches the laundry room and throws the towel into the dirty clothes bin. "I don't want help." </p><p>"But you need help. I know you had an addiction and I don't know if something happened before but-"</p><p>"I don't need help, Y/N, nor do I want help. I'm okay, I have it all under control." Spencer turns to you and purses his lips, his actions yelling "please drop it."</p><p>You don't want to drop it though, you want to help him. You don't know what the cause of his nightmares is, buy you want to find out. You were serious about never making fun of him, yet he hasn't opened himself up as much as you thought he would.</p><p>He promised you he would tell you everything.</p><p>"I promise I will tell you everything about myself. That's the way you form a trusting bond with a partner."</p><p>Or maybe you're just not being understanding. You don't know what he's been through. You don't know how difficult and lethargic it is for him to tell his "story", and you wanting him to spill every detail about every detail is foolish. Spencer needs time.</p><p>He heads out of the room, his shoulder brushing past yours as he rushes through the hall to the living room. You stand there, paused in the world that is moving in slow motion. You can hear his satchel being picked up from the floor and his shoes clacking together, but all hardly inaudible.</p><p>You're beating yourself up again. You should though, because you acted stupidly.</p><p>"Y/N?" Spencer calls.</p><p>You snap out of the beating thoughts and turn around, heading straight to where Spencer is. "Yeah?" You straighten your posture, your back still finding a way to hunch over.</p><p>You enter the room and he's kneeled on the ground, tying his shoes bunny style. He finishes the left laces and stands up, placing the strap of his bag on his shoulder. "I'm leaving," he says so plainly, disappointed in you almost.</p><p>You press your lips together, nodding your head in complete silence. He nods his head after you and turns towards the door. You lead him to the entrance and he opens the door, his other hand squeezing tightly on the brown strap of his satchel.</p><p>Before leaving, he twirls on his feet and gives you one last look. He keeps his eyes on you, navigating down your face and resting on your colorless lips- the ones you sewed shut with your teeth, causing all color to escape.</p><p>He just looks, and looks, like he's waiting for you to announce something. But in the moment, nothing comes to mind. You bring your hand to the side of the door and push it closer to him so he'll get the memo.</p><p>Then he speaks, breaking the suffocating silence. "So are you still going to pick me up at two?"</p><p>You swipe your tongue across your lips, stopping midway at his question. He reminded you of the invitation your mom sent you- To my loving daughter and her man to be - but he also rattled you because you thought Spencer wouldn't want to come after his drop in mood.</p><p>You stumble over the words that haven't even escaped your mouth, but you catch onto them before they spill out. "I- I... You still want to come?"</p><p>The corners of his lips turn up, different than he frown he had on a minute ago. "Of course I do."</p><p>Your eyes widen with agreement and your mouth parts, allowing any word to slip away, but none slip out in sync. "O... Okay... Yeah I'll...uh... pick you up at two."</p><p>He bobs his head up and down in consensus, then twists on his feet where he's faced with the short hallway and stairwell outside of your apartment. You look at him walk away, and every small word you wanted to tell him has appeared back into your mind. But it's all too much to say in a short amount of time, and all of the words wouldn't be used in the correct context or time either, so they must all be thrown away.</p><p>You also want to make sure he isn't mad at you, because you'd get dozens of shocks of guilt and shame if he was. And since the words you had in mind aren't going to work, you stick to the words that will.</p><p>"Are you mad at me?" You query, gulping down the large brick in your throat that had you gasping for air.</p><p>Spencer stops in his tracks, obviously struck by your insecurity and need for reassurance. He must think you know the answer and are only asking because you want reassurance, but you are truly in need for an answer.</p><p>"I'll see you in two hours and fifty minutes," he replies and continues his walk down the hallway.</p><p>You stand there in awe at his change in character. You've never seen Spencer as agitated as he was five minutes ago, and it's a new feeling. He isn't usually like this, from what you've seen for the past month. His nightmares might be the reason for the ups and downs, but you don't want to assume; so you leave the assumptions alone until he clears everything up.</p><p>You close the door with an overwhelming amount of jumbled emotions. You're angry with yourself, joyful that he didn't sound irked when he left, and unhappy that Spencer is shutting out help.</p><p>But you can't do much right now with such little information, so the only option right now is to shut the door and start getting dressed.</p><p>✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲</p><p>You tap your fingers on the steering wheel, waiting patiently outside of Spencer's apartment. It doesn't take long for him to come running out of the building, his hands patting down every piece of clothing on his body.</p><p>You unlock the door right when he reaches the door, then you lock it- as a joke, of course. You laugh quietly to yourself while he struggles to pull the door open, the look on his face priceless. His nose begins to scrunch up and his eyebrows turn down, therefore you unlock the door for him. Leaving it unlocked this time.</p><p>Spencer opens the car and lowers himself inside, his movements rather hectic from his bag missing. He has no bag, which means he has nothing to take off before entering, and no place to set it down. He hesitates for a moment before grabbing the seatbelt and buckling himself in.</p><p>You flick your eyes to him, checking to see if he's settled in. He is. You put your car in drive and pull out of the small spot you were in, struggling momentarily due to such a compact spot. I should've parked somewhere else, you think to yourself.</p><p>The first five minutes of the car ride are silent, no words shared between either of you and no music playing either. You aren't the biggest fan of radio music, besides a couple of pop songs you find interesting. You decide to turn up the volume, because why not, and because you have nothing interesting to share.</p><p>Well, you do, but you still aren't sure if Spencer is mad or not.</p><p>The volume of the throwback radio station grows louder as you rotate the small button, the sound of Billie Jean by Michael Jackson filling the car. You smile softly, feeling the nostalgia of 1990 flood into your brain. The song was released three years before you were born, but the song was loved dearly by your parents that you were practically raised with the song burned into your memory.</p><p>You hum the song quietly, bopping your head and tapping your fingers to the remainder of the song. You glance at Spencer, who's lost in his own world of course. He's staring out of the window, his lips parting each time you pass a large building. He's counting each one, which has to be the most adorable thing in the world.</p><p>"You listen to Michael Jackson?" You ask him, averting your eyes back to the road in front of you. </p><p>"Not really."</p><p>A plain reply, which tears your heart apart. You must be overthinking, like you do 90% of the time. "Why not?" You continue the conversation although it has become unpleasantly dry.</p><p>"Don't know," he murmurs.</p><p>"Don't know," you repeat in your brain, along with the excruciating words you have collected. He isn't in the best of moods, you understand. Not everyday will be his day.</p><p>You continue your drive to your moms house, letting the silence speak for the rest of the ride. You agree with yourself to keep the silence, because you're far too terrified to say the wrong thing. It's the safest option laid out on the table.</p><p>You stare out of the window, watching as the houses grow taller and wider, adding floors on floors and pools next to pools. They also go from being in the open where everyone can view them, to being locked inside of a fence with a pin-pad in the entrance. That is where your parents house is, a gated community on the end of a long dark street.</p><p>You pull next to the pin-pad and type in the code, pulling forward as soon as the doors open. You drive through the neighborhood at the speed of 10 miles per hour, keeping it slower than normal. The reason is because... to be quite honest... the houses all look the same. It's funny, because you remember walking into the wrong one when you were eight. That is how similar they look.</p><p>"It's Hillary Drive, the second to last house on the right," Spencer states in a higher register. "Turn right."</p><p>You scoff, turning right on the street he's directed you to. "It's almost like you know where I live." Spencer mimics your laugh, and you glance at him to check what's made him wheeze and cry in laughter. It's as if you've forgotten something. "What?"</p><p>"I came with you last Wednesday to hand her a workout VCR tape," he recalls. "We ate ice cream and burgers afterwards. You got a plain burger with light salted fries and vanilla ice cream."</p><p>You shake your head in amusement at how forgetful you can be. It's humiliating. "Oh god I'm sorry I forgot. I probably sound stupid right now." You bring your hand to your face, rubbing your eyebrows at the humiliation coursing through your body.</p><p>"No you don't," he quietly tells you. "Stop. Stop the car."</p><p>"Spencer it's fine you don't have to give me a lesson, I know I sounded dumb," you remove your hand from your face, placing it back on the steering wheel.</p><p>He shifts his body to yours, facing you now. "No, I mean stop because we're here."</p><p>You come to an abrupt halt, the stop so quick it locks your seatbelt. Your eyes widen and you take a look at Spencer, who shares the same expression as you. "I promise I'm a good driver," you exclaim.</p><p>Spencer laughs in a way to make you feel better for almost knocking the air out of his body. "I'll take your word for it," he says, nodding after each word like he's forcing himself to believe it.</p><p>You look in front of you, noticing you're only a few inches from an oddly familiar car. After registering for twenty seconds, you realize that car you were inches away from hitting, is your mothers.</p><p>Spencer follows your gaze and realizes as well, his laugh continuing. "How did you even get on this side of the street?"</p><p>You reverse and begin properly parking into the spot behind her. "I thought you would give me a couple of facts instead, Doctor Genius," you tease.</p><p>"Actually," he begins with his "matter-of-factly" voice. "Stress and worry are also large factors of car accidents due to the driver becoming distracted with their thoughts. The worry and stress limits your awareness of the world around you and it becomes difficult to understand what's taking place."</p><p>You park your car and take your keys out of the ignition, turning to him with a curious look set in your eyes. "What makes you think I'm stressed?"</p><p>Spencer unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over the console, his body in close proximity to yours. "I think you're overthinking. That distracts you from what's happening around you."</p><p>You've been caught, which now makes the situation impossible to crawl out of. You cut off eye contact with him, flicking your eyes everywhere besides his face. But he follows your eyes, his face even following every move you make.</p><p>You quit trying to move and avoid his stare every chance you get, because the space is so small there is no other object he can lay his eyes on. You inhale a deep breath and exhale shortly after, catching all you can before the conversation that's waiting to happen.</p><p>"Well, you're the profiler. You must know why I'm overthinking."</p><p>He reaches for your hand and you allow him, your hand so limp- almost like jelly- in his touch. He caresses your hand, running his thumb over ever line and vein that pops out. "I do know, I just want to hear you say it."</p><p>You shake your head, disagreeing with his choice in turn of events. "I know why I'm overthinking. I'm aware, I just don't want to say it."</p><p>His hand crawls out of yours and begins up your skin, hovering over every goose bump that was caused by his touch. Not even his touch, you think to yourself, his mere presence is what creates miniature mountains on your skin.</p><p>He makes his way to your face, cupping your cheek with his thumb running over your cheekbone. His hands are so large they take up half of your face, his slender ring and pinkie finger resting behind your ear.</p><p>"I'm not mad at you," he whispers.</p><p>Your mouth parts, allowing enough space for him to inhale all of you, keeping you to himself. He's so mesmerizing, you would let him do such a thing if it were possible.</p><p>"I'm not mad at you either," you reply, leaning into his large, soft hands. He looks deep into your eyes once more, catching all insecurities kept inside of you and making them all disappear. You feel much better, though you're sure all he's doing is staring at you.</p><p>Spencer leans into your face and plants a chaste kiss to your lips, the taste of peppermint chapstick finding its way into your mouth. Your eyes meet after he's removed his lips from yours, the second apart feeling like a decade.</p><p>He leans in and gives you another kiss, this one passionate, full of all anger he'd built up throughout the day. You can feel every emotion. Desperation, loneliness, misunderstanding, anger most of all. You hope to help him, lock your hand in his and stand next to him while he finds help.</p><p>You promise to be by his side no matter what. No matter what.</p><p>"Tea time?" Spencer murmurs.</p><p>"Tea time."</p><p>You unbuckle your seatbelt and stuff the keys in your small handbag, almost reaching for the handle before it opens on its own. You look up and it most definitely did not open on its own, it was Spencer.</p><p>You quietly thank him and step out of the car, grunting softly. He reaches for your hand and entwines them together, tight enough to cut off all circulation. You maneuver around the car, onto the sidewalk and onto the grass, taking a shortcut from the long walk around the driveway. </p><p>You walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell, waiting patiently with your hand tied to Spencer's.</p><p>"Check your drivers side compartment before you leave your car this evening," Spencer advises you.</p><p>You knit your eyebrows, wondering what he's left for you.</p><p>A book? His small drawings on sticky notes that he makes when he's bored at work?</p><p>A letter?</p><p>✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. When Pen Meets Paper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>chapter 08.</p><p>I open the door to my apartment, receiving a waft of old books bunched together on an overcrowded shelf. Not only do I smell pages of books, but I smell coffee and old Chinese food.</p><p>I close and lock the door then step out of my shoes, kicking them next to the small pile of converse. I drop my satchel on the brown chair by my desk and make my way through the dark hallway to the kitchen.</p><p>I enter the miniature room and look around, finding the source of food that's probably been sitting out for three days. I fail to remember that not all food can stay out.</p><p>Well, I know food such as Chinese cannot be left out, but I'm never home, therefore no one is left to throw it out.</p><p>I gather the boxes left on the counter and throw them into the black trashcan in the corner of the room. The smell is so putrid that my stomach begins to turn and the contents I thought I threw up bubble up my throat.</p><p>I swallow it down, the acid burning down my throat. The taste is ultimately disgusting, so disgusting the feeling itself could make you vomit.</p><p>I shake my head, shutting my eyes for a split second to try and process what's happened in the past hour. I don't want to close my eyes, but that's all I seem to be capable of doing. I can sleep, I just simply cannot take naps. The way it works is quite confusing, but it happens, and I don't question it.</p><p>I open my eyes, staring blankly at the wall opposite from me. All I see is Y/N's sad face, the face that wanted me to tell her everything. I wish I could tell her every detail, but I'm scared she might not take my trauma seriously. I question why I think such a thing, because Y/N would never do that. But my mind guards itself when someone new comes by.</p><p>Speaking of new, I also wonder why I continue to refer to Y/N as a new person, because we've spoken for a month now and she's told me many things others would not dare say. She isn't new- new, but she's new.</p><p>I should be able to spew out every fact about myself like the facts I tell on cases, but my mind puts up a fence that causes me to refrain from saying one word deeper than surface level information.</p><p>I wonder how I will tell her about what's happened. I'm ready to tell her, however I lack confrontation skills. I stumble over my words and the laughs that I use to cover them up only makes the scene worse. But there is one thing I am exceptionally good at.</p><p>Writing letters.</p><p>I've written a letter to my mom every day for who knows how long, and I enjoy writing them. So I know writing her a letter which includes all information about myself will be a good idea.</p><p>I snap out of my haze and shake my head, as though the negative thoughts will fall out of my ears from the force. I take one last look around the kitchen to see if any trash is visible, but none is, so I turn on my feet and head towards my desk.</p><p>I can see it through the hall, the crooked lamps that are stuck to the back wall and the desk cluttered with papers and pens from books and writing. I've never thought to clean up, because like I've said before, I do not spend much time here. I rarely use my bed, swapping it out for the jet couch, and I run on coffee and either frozen food or children's food, so there is no need for a large, sophisticated kitchen.</p><p>I meet the edge of my desk and I maneuver around, gliding my hand over the cold wood which glistens under the lamplight and sun from the open windows. I take a seat on the cold leather and grab my letter writing essentials. Pen, paper, envelope.</p><p>I lay the piece of paper in front of me, then the dark pen in my right hand. I take in a deep breath, staring at the blank piece of paper that is soon going to be filled with writing. Then, I exhale. I lower my pen to the manila paper, already planning what I will write.</p><p>✎...</p><p>September 02, 2007</p><p>12:15 P.M.</p><p>Y/N,</p><p>I know it sounds rather foolish to write you a letter when I have your contact information. I could easily tell you what's been going on in my brain, but I cannot pull myself to it. You see, I have never been good with confrontation; I either become too angry for the normal person, or too emotional. And not only that, but when I do finally find someone trustworthy enough, I overload them with my life story; life story meaning every event leading to my twenty-seventh year on this planet.</p><p>I won't waste your time, though this letter is destined to be long, but I've wanted to finally tell you about myself. The story about my addiction and why I have the terrors, because you have the right to know. We've both agreed that we want this stage of speaking to lead to a relationship, and with that we must share the deepest of secrets. Starting off with me. I have many, though I've told you all except the one I'm sharing in this letter. It's overwhelming to share this, because I've never brought the events into conversations after they took place. It is too stressful and energy consuming for me to go into every crevice and dig out how I felt, what I saw, what I heard. But you, love, you are different. You're understanding, despite your emotions and longing for me to be happy interrupts the cycle at times. That's a minor issue, I promise. We each have our flaws, and that's perfectly okay. It doesn't make me like you any less.</p><p>I'm blabbering, aren't I? I'm sorry. I write what I think and I never look back and see how badly off topic I am. I also may be hindering so I won't get to the story, but I've already told myself that I will tell you. I will, I need to. So instead of blabbering and writing unnecessary thoughts, I might as well start now.</p><p>About a year ago, my team was called on a case about a man by the name of Raphael. "Raphael" was killing people he referred to as sinners because he thought he was serving god. I haven't said this yet, but the killings were disorganized; we thought there were three unsubs (unknown subject) when in reality, there was only one. This makes no sense, you might think, when there were three different voices on the police calls, all holding different power, tones, and accents. But it all makes sense when I tell you that the one unsub had Dissociative Identity Disorder. That unsub was named Tobias Hankel. God, the name itself turns me into a nervous wreck. Remembering that he was forced to commit these murders by Raphael, one of his alter egos, makes me drown in guilt. Guilt I shouldn't have. Tobias wanted to help me, and I wanted to help him. Save him from what was happening inside of his head. But I couldn't.</p><p>When Tobias was brought into the pool of conversation, JJ and I were sent to talk to him. He lived in an isolated area, a small house which appeared to be cluttered. After speaking to him, we realized he was the unsub and decided to be the agents we are and try to find more evidence. And we found evidence alright. We found the tens of computers he was using to stalk his victims. I wanted to know more, of course, which I shouldn't have done because it got me into a mess.</p><p>I can already see your face, contorted into confusion because you know I'm not the curious kind of person to go into unknown areas because of the likelihood of surprises, but I was different a year ago. Stupid might be the better word. So like the stupid Doctor Reid I was, I followed the sound of a familiar voice into a maze of corn. I followed and followed, but I heard gunshots and screams from JJ and decided to run back to her. As I ran back, I was struck by Tobias. I couldn't run off, I couldn't, I was trapped. I had to let him kidnap me.</p><p>In the moment, I was extremely terrified, like anyone would when trapped by someone battling their mind with a gun in hand. I am not a very religious man, but at that moment I prayed to whoever was listening. Even when my vision went black, I continued to pray, scream as loudly as I could but my voice was not heard. No one could help me, I was alone. I had to wake in a place I had never seen before for two days. I had to face the pain of being struck on the foot by a large bark of tree, and what this secret is all about, I had to face being injected with dilaudid. The drug that was meant to help me from the pain and fright. The pain subsided, even the terror had gone away for a moment. However, like many drugs, the euphoria fades away and the suffering floods back in.</p><p>Y/N, I'm sorry for what you're about to read, but I must include everything... I enjoyed how the drug made me feel. I was numb, I was able to forget what was happening to me. Who wouldn't want to feel that after being kidnapped and tortured? I could also see my mother, feel her in my presence, it felt peaceful. But then I realized I was more close to death than I was to living. He had injected too much of the drug into me and I was sent to life after life on the physical world. The event of me feeling lightweight turned into the worst nightmare, and the craving of the drugs after effects was coursing shame through the ounce of life inside of me. All I wanted was numbness, not death.</p><p>To not make this worse onto your sensitive mind, I'll skip to when I was rescued. It was a relief to see the faces of my team members, feel them embrace me in the tightest of hugs. It was well for a moment, but shortly after I was reminded of what happened and wanted to disable my mind from remembering. I was given hugs and kisses on the cheek, all the while I was thinking of how well the drug would feel. That simple, evil thought and craving was the one that made me turn back and steal vials of the drug. It was alleviating to know that the memories would dull down. I was ready for it.</p><p>I began taking dilaudid when the PTSD became unbearable. One little injection and you're set for a couple of hours, I would tell myself as I prepared the needles in the restrooms of police stations. Dilaudid was addicting, but I failed to face the addiction that was steadily forming. I didn't come to terms until I reached three months of use. Then I asked for help; early enough that I was still functioning, but too late to cease my dependency. The recovery was excruciating, but I presume it was worth it because now I am ten months clean.</p><p>And I hope you know that you've helped me with the pain and memories. The nightmares have begun, which I do not have a clue as to why, but you being as understanding as you can has ultimately helped. You telling me about your own scars and their past behind them has aided me to tell you this story. You- someone I refer to as "bub" when I'm alone- are the one person I cannot get enough of. I hope you stay by my side through this tough time, though I know you will. I'm sorry again, for keeping this from you when I should have been more open. I know you will understand, but I say this to soothe my anxiety.</p><p>Thank you for being you,</p><p>Spencer.</p><p>✎...</p><p>I set down my pen, leaving my hand aching from writing so aggressively. I didn't allow my mind to make any decisions, I just let my pen meet the paper and do whatever it desired. It wrote what I thought and recalled from the two days of being held captive.</p><p>I was not lying when I said re-telling the story was lethargic, I was telling the absolute truth. I am so defeated from writing this letter that I want to go into hibernation. No interaction between myself and another person for a week. That idea is impossible though, because I cannot spend more than two days without Y/N.</p><p>I take a long, deep breath and shift in the chair I have been still in. My bones feel stiff despite only sitting for five minutes. I take the pieces of paper in front of me and fold them in half, my eyes navigating down the ink that has seeped through to the back. I thankfully set two pieces of paper on my desk before beginning, so instead of words smudged upon each other, they are on two different papers.</p><p>I grab the envelope on the left side of the desk and open it, inserting the pieces of paper inside. The fit is tight, but it fits nonetheless. I look around my area, my eyes in search for water so I can seal the envelope. I do not trust licking the seal to envelopes, you never know what could happen. I finally land on a glass of water on the edge of my desk and reach over to it.</p><p>The glass has accumulated specks of dust, but I dip my finger around it and bring my wet fingertip to the seal. I continue placing the droplets on the seal and shut it closed once it has gathered enough water. I turn it over and lay it on my counter, taking my pen and writing my name onto the front. My handwriting is that of a five year old, but Y/N will notice who it belongs to when she finds the letter.</p><p>I click the pen and drop it in it's cupholder then move aside any extra stationary items. I push back the leather chair and stand up, holding the letter in hand as I maneuver around my desk. I flick my eyes to the clock and it is in fact 12:22 P.M., giving me enough time to read as many books as I can.</p><p>I place the envelope on the top left corner of my desk and move along to the kitchen. My eyes must have not been open because it is far more cluttered than I had imagined. There are boxes of cereal left open and the loaf of bread I laid on the counter last night is still there. I know Y/N would be disappointed if she were to walk in right now, so I begin cleaning up.</p><p>As I clean up- beginning at the stove- I think of Y/N. How she thought I was angry with her for asking what caused my nightmares. I thought she knew I wasn't and was only asking for reassurance, but now I see that she wasn't. I was shutting her out and my mood dropped drastically that I became unrecognizable.</p><p>I hope she realizes that I'm not angry, just tremendously tired at the day I've had. I still am, even more than I was before. I sulk around like I've never slept a day in my life, but that's what happens when I think too much of traumatic events.</p><p>And now that I recall what's happened and what's destined to happen, my mood drops.</p><p>Again. The same, stupid rollercoaster I dread getting onto. </p><p>•------------------------•</p><p>Short chapter, very sad chapter as well, but I promise it gets happier. There will be some more sad, traumatic action in about two chapters, but then it will be "smooth" (for the most part). Chapters will also resume to being 3000+ words, I've just been quiet busy lately so I am very sorry about that. Okay, love you guys! </p><p>                                                                                   - Keyly</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 09. The Collection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>warnings: nsfw. long chapter ahead. (5,000+ words) </p><p>Work is dreadful when your head is full of the one person you fantasize the most about. You become distracted and it's far more difficult to pay attention to the world in front of you. It's euphoric, thinking about her, but my mind wanders far too ahead and it takes me a long time to find where it was prior.</p><p>And it doesn't help when the love that's slowly creeping behind me begins to smell distinctly how I thought it would smell. Sweet yet sour, intoxicating in a delicate way. I can begin smelling it though I want to run so it won't catch up to me.</p><p>Love is a dangerous thing, especially for one who isn't dating the person. Y/N and I plan on taking the speaking stage to the next level, and I think I am ready despite not knowing one another for the longest time. The problem is though, I think. That is the key word- think. I am not one hundred percent sure if I'm ready to take on the role of a boyfriend. What if I'm not good enough for her?</p><p>I know I should be more optimistic about the situation because I've been optimistic most of the time since August 2nd, but I'm nervous. What if the day I ask her- the day is not set yet- she says no and laughs alongside of Clara? I could see the look Clara gave me the first time I visited Y/N at her house; she had a possessive look in her eyes like she was mad that I was talking to Y/N.</p><p>I'm a profiler, I can see right through people's masks, and I could tell Clara was somewhat fond of Y/N. But not in the way best friend's are fond of one another. Clara most definitely had a crush on Y/N, I could tell by the way she returned her focus right back to her when she finished greeting me and how close she stuck by Y/N.</p><p>Clara, she would do anything to keep Y/N to herself, it is something about how she looked at me. I sound awfully insane for making such an assumption, but I am always right. I just have a strong intuition, and not to mention I am in fact a genius.</p><p>Therefore when the day comes that I ask Y/N to be my girlfriend, I will not be surprised if Clara is hidden somewhere laughing at me. In fact, if I see her, I will join in with her because Clara isn't as intimidating as she thinks she is. And that is coming from a man who thinks everyone is intimidating.</p><p>Ending another thought that has trailed too off-course. I scold myself for that every time it happens, because I don't refrain myself from thinking so much, I simply allow myself to go on.</p><p>I pinpoint where I started, and now sulk from the recalling of it. I do worry that Y/N will say no to when I ask her, but I must do it. I know she is the person that's right for me. I may only be twenty-seven, but I know she is the right person for me.</p><p>When I think about her, I receive a gut feeling. A gut feeling that tells me to stay with her because she means well. I have never received that feeling, not even when I was talking to Ethan, so I'll follow it.</p><p>"Spencer," Morgan calls, snapping me out of my thoughts. "I'm starting to think that girl of yours is doing more harm than good."</p><p>My eyebrows knit together in confusion, disgust almost at what he's said. She is doing nothing but good and it's quite offensive for Morgan to say that. "What do you mean? She, who has a name actually, which is-"</p><p>"- I was joking, pretty boy," he interrupts, emitting that sarcastic laugh. "You just haven't been as focused as you usually are."</p><p>I know that. "Oh, yeah I guess." I purse my lips and return to the paperwork in front of me, dreading what else he may ask.</p><p>"Daydreaming," Morgan goes on, the friction of his clothing becoming louder as he walks up behind me. Then he pats my shoulder, with such force my breath catches in my throat. "What are you daydreaming about kid?"</p><p>I swallow the stone lodged in my throat, taking in a deep breath and exhaling loudly so Morgan can hear the "please, let's not start" in my voice. "Mhm," I murmur, obviously done with the conversation.</p><p>I enjoy Morgan's company 90% of the time, but the recurring questions of what Y/N looks like and what we "do" when we are alone- emphasis on do- has been getting out of hand. I would love to tell him, but maybe if he didn't make jokes about me having sex every couple of seconds. </p><p>I understand if others take me as a sensitive person, but every human being does not share the same level of sensitivity. What makes me feel insecure and gloomy is not always going to make the person next to me feel the same way.</p><p>"Morgan leave Reid alone," exclaims Emily from her desk.</p><p>I look up and see her giving me a warm smile, her dark eyes understanding like she can see how bothering Morgan can be. She winks and flicks her eyes back down to her paperwork, her pen already scribbling away.</p><p>My eyes delay, remaining on the top of her head while I accept the kindness. I crack a smile back to her although she isn't looking and return my focus to Morgan, who's backed up with his hands in the air like he's been caught by the police. "Fine man, just wanted to have a brotherly conversation."</p><p>I scrunch my eyebrows, feeling a sense of guilt enter my bloodstream. I should tell him, my brain suddenly explodes with that continuing question. Morgan is like my brother and I've hidden all information about Y/N from him.</p><p>"Wait," I say abruptly. "Morgan I... Can you come with me?"</p><p>Morgan turns around, his eyebrows raised in a concerning matter while his eyes are delicately staring at me. "Yeah, yeah sure."</p><p>I nod my head and stand up, stuffing my hands in my pockets to avoid fidgeting. I head towards the small kitchen and Morgan follows behind, quiet until I speak up. "I think it's time to tell you about..."</p><p>He blinks as though piecing the conversation together, "the person you're talking to."</p><p>"Yeah," I respond quietly.</p><p>He sets his mug down and pulls out a chair, sinking himself down. Morgan sits there patiently, waiting for me to to gain the strength to tell him every detail. I'm worried about speaking to him about Y/N because she's different than the women he finds attractive. Though I shouldn't be worrying about that due to Y/N having a kindling relationship with me and not Derek.</p><p>"Her name is Y/N," I begin.</p><p>"Pretty name," Morgan replies, lifting the mug to his lips.</p><p>"I know," I giggle in a low register. "She's a pretty person."</p><p>Morgan looks at me with a smug smile, as if he's proud that he's gotten to hear about Y/N; like he's the first ever person I've talked to about Y/N. False. The first person I ever told was JJ.</p><p>"She's twenty-two, her birthday is in one-hundred and eleven days," I pause to see if Morgan will catch the date, but he stares blankly at me. I laugh, but I proceed. "December 28th."</p><p>"Ah."</p><p>"Yeah. Okay, let me continue. She graduated at the age of sixteen and went to New York University for film. She says she isn't smart but I like to disagree; she has a smart mind."</p><p>Morgan shakes his head, blinking slowly after every sentence I say to him. He listens carefully like he does when listening to Garcia give background information for cases, fully into what I tell him. I go on and on about her hair and how much I love it despite some comments here and there. I talk about her skin and how beautiful it looks under the sun and the light of our favorite diner on Friday nights (They turn on LED lights and they move aside tables so people can dance). </p><p>Her pink lemonade lip balm and how it leaves a blush pigment on her lips. Too much information given in a short amount of time, but all necessary to describe her. Y/N deserves a book written about her, and maybe one day in the future I will. All about her personality and how attractive a person she is- on the inside and outside.</p><p>"Is that it pretty boy?" Morgan asks, proud of what I've managed to say. "You've listed everything from how she looks to the vocabulary she uses."</p><p>"Actually, no. She likes to collect crystals, all kinds of them." I manage to crack a smile, my mind flashing back to the Selenite crystal placed in the middle of her coffee table and the dark purple Amethyst crystal placed on the windowsill of her bedroom.</p><p>Y/N has crystals in almost every room of her apartment, each having their reasoning for being there. When I first came to her apartment I was quite thrilled to see how in love she was with crystals, because I find them fascinating as well.</p><p>"And you said she wears long flowy skirts with-"</p><p>"-Doc Martens. I really enjoy her style of clothing, it's different from what I usually see." I take my hands out of my pockets and rub them on my pants, drying them from the sweat practically dripping down my fingertips.</p><p>"She sounds like a good person," Morgan says.</p><p>"Yeah she," my cell phone begins to ring and I immediately grab my phone out of my pocket. I check the caller ID, then look to see if Morgan has his eye on me. "She is, actually this is her right now."</p><p>He stands from his chair and takes his mug with him, exiting the kitchen backwards. He waves his hands, motioning for me to answer. I nod and pick up the phone as fast as he mouths the words "answer, now."</p><p>I bring the phone to my ear, my heart skipping a beat when I hear her breaths. They're rather worried, quick yet spaced apart. "Is everything okay?" Is the question I have running through my head.</p><p>"I'm sorry Spencer, really I'm sorry. I didn't have a clue and I just kept asking the question over and over again without thinking," she spews, her words becoming slurred due to its pace. She is clearly in a state of shame and I understand why, but I do not choose to let her continue to feel that way.</p><p>I turn around and face the sink, in case anyone can perfectly read lips. "Hey, pretty girl, listen to me. Breathe in."</p><p>"Wha- okay." She takes a deep breath, her throat clearly fatigued from what I think crying. Her voice is strained, raspy as though she's screamed until satisfied. She 100% read the letter I wrote her when she got home, which is a perfect explanation as to why my pretty girl has cried; though it sends me into a state of somberness.</p><p>"Okay now exhale."</p><p>Y/N follows my instructions and exhales, her breath shaky. She stays silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts I suppose. Then she asks, "are you okay though? That should have been my first question."</p><p>I scoff, lovingly of course. "I am in fact okay. Don't worry love, if something is wrong I will come to you."</p><p>"Promise me?"</p><p>"I promise I will tell you if something is wrong."</p><p>I tell myself that I will keep that promise as well. Y/N is someone I confide in, almost entirely now and I plan on informing her about any inconvenience, whether it be minor or major.</p><p>"I promise you I will tell you everything too." She inhales deeply once more and pauses for a minute. After the pause, she speaks. "Um... Okay so can I take you out for lunch today? I know it's a weird question after what just happened but I really want to have lunch today."</p><p>I nod to myself, my head shaking violently. I imagine her sitting on her couch, legs to the side while her phone is pressed to her ear- waiting for my reply. It's become a habit that I've told her about, so every time there's a moment of silence to her questions for dates, she knows to take that silence as a yes.</p><p>She giggles, then emits a low "okay" into the phone. "Your lunch is at twelve forty-five, am I correct?"</p><p>"Typically we don't have a certain time for lunch, though most of my team members have theirs at that time, but yes. Twelve thirty. And maybe we can do something after?" I stand with my legs locked, nervous at my bold message. I have never been as straightforward with my words, despite them not being very straightforward this time either.</p><p>"We can always order delivery from Mary's if you'd like to come to my apartment and do that something. Also, keep working on the boldness of your words, it's beginning to work," she teases, receiving the message I was nervous to send.</p><p>I mimic her laugh, feeling rather joyful at the turning of the conversation. My emotions have been on a rollercoaster for the entirety of the work day and holding this conversation with Y/N has managed to lift them. She's amazing at helping with that, it's a good quality of hers.</p><p>"Okay, yeah I will. I'll see you in two hours," I tell her.</p><p>"I will see you in two hours my little baby," Y/N replies, her voice breaking between words as if she's attempting to hold back her giggles.</p><p>"Baby? I am not a baby!" I reply, my voice aghast though I enjoy being called baby. It causes my heart to swell with joy.</p><p>Y/N giggles, releasing every sound she kept in throughout the call. "Fine, my little angel, I will see you in two hours. Bye-bye."</p><p>"Bye bye."</p><p>She breathes one last time and I follow her, the meaning behind such acts a substitute for the words I love you. It's silly to others, but I think of it as her last breath is mine and mine is hers, we shared those breaths. You could always add meaning to something meaningless, so it may not make sense, but it is our thing. It will be our "thing" even after we have shared the three heart-staking words.</p><p>She hangs up and I stay with my cellphone to my ear, listening to nothing but the clicks of keyboards and scribbling of pens. Y/N may not still be on the line, but I can still hear every giggle and smile evident in her voice. So precious.</p><p>So so precious. </p><p>•------------------------•</p><p>"You never get anything different," Y/N tells me, taking a bite out of her burger. "Thought you didn't like change."</p><p>I laugh quietly at her comment, remembering that I did in fact not get the regular, no onions or tomatoes with a small amount of mayonnaise cheeseburger I usually get. I ordered the double cheeseburger with lettuce and one singular tomato slice. Not much of a change due to the only addition being an extra patty and one singular tomato slice, but it is a change.</p><p>I take a bite into my burger and I'm faced with the tomato slice, the red circular fruit- not a vegetable- looking right back at me. I try to chew through the taste of such a horrid piece of food, but I can't. I grab a napkin and cover my mouth, spitting into the thin material.</p><p>Y/N laughs, so greatly it turns on the blush button on my neck. My cheeks fill in a bright pink color, I suspect turning my pale face into that of a pink peep marshmallow. She presses her hand on my shoulder and rubs back and forth, soothing the color that swallows my face.</p><p>"Yeah, I guess I am not good with change." I ball up the napkin in the palm of my hand and turn to the trashcan in the corner, eyeing it so I can be as precise as possible. I throw it and it lands inside, perfectly in the center.</p><p>"You know, it's good to get out of your comfort zone," Y/N says. "It's good for the soul."</p><p>I nod, yet disagree with her on the inside. "Yeah well it gives me anxiety."</p><p>She shakes her head and takes a fry from the large plate her fries are dumped onto. "You don't fully dive in, bub, you take steps."</p><p>"You have to take steps to dive into a pool?"</p><p>She pushes my shoulder, laughing. "Actually, yes. I would think you knew that." </p><p>I flick my eyes up to hers, which are already on mine. She offers a warm smile and I return it, the blush I magically made disappear sneaking up behind me once more. I cough away the silence and return to the burger laying on the round white plate, presented with no sight of tomatoes.</p><p>I place the bun on top of the patty and grab the food from its place, bringing it to my mouth. I take a bite and chew through, relieved at the taste of the usual meal I get.</p><p>Y/N jolts up and I move backwards, alerted at her actions. "Ouh!" She exclaims. "I have something for you."</p><p>I turn my focus to Y/N, watching her scrimmage through her room, great elation in every step. She grabs a small bag from behind her T.V. and skips back to the bed with giggles shooting through her throat, her smile so wide it cracks her skin.</p><p>She rests the bag inches from me, allowing me to move away my food. I move aside the greasy plate and bring the bag closer to me, the beautiful dark purple color illuminating my face. "What is it?" I ask her as I try to peek inside. The bag is filled with tissue paper.</p><p>"Okay." She shifts in her seat. "So you know how you like my crystal collection?</p><p>"Mhm," I respond with as much excitement in my voice as can be projected. I know what will be inside, and I cannot wait.</p><p>"Well..."</p><p>I take out the tissue paper and look inside, taking in the different colors that brighten the white inside of the bag. The dark purple  of the Amethyst and the red, brown color of the Jasper crystal. The deep black color of obsidian and the mixture of black, brown and white creating the smoky quartz crystal. They're all lying on a purple dish, one I believe she must have bought along with the crystals. </p><p>Y/N has told me about the crystal shop she loves and she's even taken me to shop there with her. When I entered, I was immediately swept off of my feet with positive energy. I never wanted to leave due to the overwhelming energy, it was that strong. </p><p>I look up to her, her wary smile meeting my eye. "Do you like them?" She asks me, her body leaning into mine. </p><p>"I do," I respond. "A lot. How did you know I wanted obsidian and smoky quartz?"</p><p>She leans her head to the side and gives me a "it's quite obvious" look. I wonder if it's evident in the way I move or if I obviously appear to need all bad energy in my life sucked out, but I'm thankful for however she found out. </p><p>"You," she lifts her finger to my chest, "are an FBI agent who catches all kinds of criminals like every other day. You needed those crystals." </p><p>"Right." </p><p>"Do you like the tray?" Y/N continues, her body now inches away from me. She's gotten significantly closer to me and I have noticed each time she scoots in. </p><p>"Of course. Do you know what else I like?" </p><p>She grins, her bottom lip between her teeth. "Hmm. What is it?" </p><p>I push my body forward, my face so close to hers I can see the root of every eyelash, the clump of mascara on her lashes that indicates she applied two or more coats. She giggles and my heart explodes, shattering inside of my body yet wanting to climb up my throat. </p><p>She closes the gap between us and places her lips on mine, the taste of strawberry from her milkshake swirls in my mouth, mixing with the salt on my lips from the fries. I can feel myself shaking, recalling the "something" I told her about. Stepping into the arena meant only for those who are bold is out of my comfort zone, but it has gotten me here. I should be thankful that I've stepped in. Which I am, but it's frightening. </p><p>She adjusts herself on the bed so her lips can comfortably lay on mine. I run my hand along her forearm, feeling every scar that has formed a bump on her skin. I reach her face and place my hand on her cheek with great care as if she might break. </p><p>I move my lips passionately, opening my mouth to allow her tongue inside. I become a little wary when tongue is involved because of how sudden it might be, but it is something I've wanted to work on. It's funny thinking about it though. How for others it comes naturally, but for me it is the total opposite. </p><p>Although I despise technology, I have sat and watched videos of someone explaining how to kiss. No visuals, because it then becomes uncomfortable, but with them simply explaining as though they are reading it from a book. </p><p>Those videos may perhaps be for teenagers trying to figure out how to kiss, but they never had an age category so they must be for everyone. </p><p>Y/N slides her tongue inside of my mouth, motions being done which feel amazing. She places her hands on my thighs and pushes herself up, standing her knees on the bed which makes her appear taller. Her hands move up and down my body, exploring every wrinkle on my clothing and dot on my shirt. </p><p>"The food is in the way," she mumbles against my mouth. "We should move it." </p><p>"Mhm," I respond to her. I break the kiss and move to the food scattered on the bed. I place the plates beside the bed and the small bag of crystals on the nightstand nearest to the large window. It's covered, but light still beams in. </p><p>I move her milkshake to the farthest side of the right nightstand, just in case someone knocks it over, though I doubt that will happen. I grab the last fry and toss it to the plate next to the bed, which failed to land due to my quick pace. It doesn't matter, I can pick it up afterwards. </p><p>I practically jump back on the bed and pull her into my grasp, continuing the kiss that had to be broken for a minute and a half. I lay my hand on her cheek once more, tightening the grip this time unlike the last. Y/N slowly injects her tongue inside of mine, her pushing on my body tightening my stomach. </p><p>The moment is so pleasurable, I could climax by her raking her hands slowly up and down my body, kissing me with her tongue lapping against mine. All Y/N has to do is touch me, feel me everywhere. She makes me feel good, so good I have to close my eyes and catch my breath. </p><p>She pushes on my shoulders, indicating that she wants me to scoot back. I begin to move back until my head hits her headboard. Y/N removes her lips from mine and begins planting kisses on my jaw, her hands gripping the base of my neck as she does so. </p><p>I tilt my head back, allowing her all of the access she needs. "You smell like," she begins down my neck, "peppermint." </p><p>I let out an inhibited laugh, my breaths deep and raspy from the pleasure I continue to try and keep down. I look down, her hardened nipples poking through her top. I look past her breasts and down to my pants, the material tightening around my hardened cock. </p><p>Y/N sucks on my neck and I'm sure she'll leave a hickey. My breath catches in my throat, my chest tightening as she takes one hand and slides it down to my clothed erection. "Oh- God," I whisper under my breath, my mouth hanging open. </p><p>She giggles underneath her breath, palming it with her gentle hand. She takes her other hand and rakes it down my body, using it to begin unzipping my pants. I push my head back further into the headboard, the top of my head aching due to it being wood. </p><p>Y/N slides down my pants and looks up to me, her lips and surrounding skin red from the dark pink-red lipstick she had on. She looks deeply into my eyes, asking for permission to do what she "wants to do." I nod my head in consensus, no words shared between us because she knows exactly what I want. </p><p>For her to ride my cock until she orgasms. </p><p>I may say what I want in my mind, say what comes in and what fails to come out, because it is a safe place. No one but myself can judge what happens inside. So when I think some of the most dirty thoughts in the world, I keep them all to myself because everyone sees me as a baby. To everyone, I am innocent and still a boy. But I'm not. And I do not plan on telling anyone about that. </p><p>Including how I wouldn't mind someone tying me up. It is good for many, and it entertains me when I think about it happening to me. Usually the one doing the tying and dominance has no face, but lately it has been Y/N. </p><p>I run my hands up her thighs and grip her waist, her body still moving due to her reaching over and grabbing a condom from the bedside table. She returns and I loosen my grip, allowing her to pull down my boxers and put the condom onto my cock. </p><p>Y/N waves the condom, her smile large enough to blind me. She's glowing in the light. She appears magical. </p><p>"You looked really hot when you put that condom between your teeth last time," she tells me, her voice seductive. </p><p>"Mhm?" I ask. </p><p>"Yeah, I wanted to give you head instead." </p><p>I cough, my spit getting caught between every breath. She laughs in response, but all I do is catch my breath. That comment caught me by surprise but I still quite enjoyed it. </p><p>Y/N puts the condom between her teeth and gives me a smirk, the packaging flapping between her teeth. She scoots back, her ass- butt sounds weird reverberating in my head- rubbing against my cock. I emit a moan, my lips shaking from such pleasure I have already received. </p><p>She taps her fingers on the waistline of my navy boxers, her fingernails running down my thigh then so close to the erection pleading to be released. "You- You're teasing me," I whisper, my words shaky from my stomach sinking down. </p><p>"Fine, since you've been a good boy." </p><p>The praising, oh the praising. Being called that is like music to my ears, so loud and tasteful that I cannot hold in how she makes me feel. </p><p>She pulls down my boxers and frees my cock from the restraining material. I flick my eyes up to her face, watching her widened eyes and her throat which is gulping down the nervousness. Y/N has reminded me of how "large" it is and how no one would think mine would be as big as it is. It is something I live with, and it may attract women and men, but it isn't anything I should be applauded for. </p><p>I rake my eyes down to her lips. They mouth "god," as if she's praying to anyone listening. Like she wants to be protected before allowing me inside of her. She looks nervous but desperate, wanting me to fill her. </p><p>She brings the packaging to her fingertips and rips it open, taking out the condom and throwing the wrapper to the side. She grabs my cock and slowly rolls the condom on, all done carefully because she must know men can be sensitive when having an erection. </p><p>"The head of penises have nerve endings that can cause it to be sensitive," I state while attempting to place a rhythm to my breaths. "For some men it may be too painful which can cause a lot of problems during-" </p><p>Y/N kisses my lips softly, shutting me up from saying any more facts. The fact was rather unhelpful in the situation, so I understand. I should know not to sputter them when in a nerve-racking situation as such. </p><p>"Shhh," she shushes. She presses another kiss then brings her fingertips to the hem of her shirt, taking it over her head and throwing it to the side. She has no bra on. Her breasts are in my face for a moment, and I cannot refrain myself from touching them, feeling them between my fingers. </p><p>I take a nipple between my fingers as she rolls her skirt up. I roll it between my fingers and place my lips on her left breast, kissing around her areola then on her nipple. Y/N moans loudly, my name even flying past her mouth. It's loud, practically screaming into the air. </p><p>I release her nipple from my fingers and my hand finds their way to her waist once more. She's finished rolling up her skirt, so with one hand I grab my cock, and with the other I push down her body. She sinks down onto my cock, and moans slip out of her mouth. </p><p>She rolls her head forward and her hands fall onto my shoulders, gripping onto them as I begin to push her up and down. "God, you feel so good," she whispers in my ear. </p><p>I plant kisses on her breast, sucking on her skin with intent to leave a hickey. She left one on me- I  know it- therefore I must leave one on her. And I will do it again because I want to feel as though we belong to each other. I am not one to say "you are mine and only mine... you cannot talk to anyone else" because that is the definition of toxic, but I want to know that we share something. </p><p>Y/N begins to bob on my cock, her movement along with my hands creating a rhythm that succeeds my pleasure. I breathe against her top, smelling the earthy smell of lavender that she wears. Her rose quartz necklace dangles in my face, close to hitting my face but not close enough. </p><p>"Oh baby," she moans in a high register. </p><p>"Mhm," I return. "You make me feel so good. I- I don't know how y-you're so young and know-" </p><p>"Shut up angel," she admonishes teasingly. </p><p>And I do. She may not fully be serious, but I like to be submissive, and she does an awful good job at being dominant. </p><p>I dig my fingernails into her sides, pushing her down on my cock. Her moans are delightful, full of passion and lust. Music to my ears with every breath. </p><p>Y/N sinks down on my cock and begins to rock, pushing herself against me as if she wants me to reach my climax already. I have an hour before I have to go back to the BAU, therefore we can take all the time we need, but maybe she is doing this so we can go another round, then another round until we are both tired. </p><p>"Your dick is so big I can feel it in my stomach," she whispers in my ear. "Here," she grabs my hand that is on my waist, "feel it." She presses her hand on her stomach, and I can surely feel myself in her. It's an odd feeling, but it's delighting in a way. I wonder if that makes me a weird person, but it gives me satisfaction. </p><p>"You're that deep." </p><p>"That deep?" I ask. </p><p>She removes my hands and continues to rock back and forth, back and forth until I start to feel myself nearing my orgasm. "That deep." Y/N moans, pleading for me to come so we can switch positions into missionary. She likes that position better. Y/N says she can be more dominant when underneath me. </p><p>I like when she rides me, but I like to see her underneath me as well, watching her mouth fall open and scream my name at the top of her lungs. Forgetting she even has neighbors. Her yelling my name should frighten me because I try to avoid any attention to myself, but I want everyone to know that we're having sex. </p><p>Y/N takes her fingers and begins rubbing herself, aiding her into orgasm. I open my eyes and gaze down at her as she works, staring at her fingers and how they move back and forth. I lick my lips, swallowing the moans that threaten to pierce the air. </p><p>And as I try to hold myself from it all, she moves at a higher speed. the moans come flying out, piercing the air like I didn't want them to. "Fuck, oh my god," I exclaim, digging my fingernails deeper into her skin. </p><p>Y/N throws her head back, her lips no longer next to my ear. She allows a laugh to crawl up her throat, the bubbling giggle emitting from the deprivation of orgasm. "Baby, I'm close," she states, "I am so fucking close!" </p><p>"I am too," I reply. With my grip, I rock her hips, pushing them forward and back and up and down, something so lethargic. Sex itself is lethargic, strenuous when you haven't received action in months upon months, but it feels good. And exercise for people who are not active, I tell myself. </p><p>I feel my stomach tense, the knot tightening to the point where I feel the need to pause my breaths. "Oh yeah," I moan, my voice deeper than normal. "Oh god I'm about to-" </p><p>"Go ahead angel, come. Come," Y/N shouts. </p><p>I release my load into the condom, panting as I push past the orgasm. I squeeze my eyes shut, biting on my lip while exhaling through my nose. I can feel Y/N around me, the residue of what we just did. </p><p>I don't move, because I feel like if I move, the moment will disappear. The moment is quiet and I sit there, hands still on her sides and her breasts in my face. Y/N has sunken down on my cock, but everything feels peaceful. In the moment. </p><p>Y/N leans in and lays her head on my chest, the thought of me remaining inside avoiding to land on either one of our minds. </p><p>"I want to be your girlfriend some day." </p><p>"Soon," I whisper. "Because I'd like to be your boyfriend as well." </p><p>And I do. I would love to be her boyfriend. Spend my life with her. It may only be a month but it feels like decades since we've known one another. I know so much about Y/N and she knows so much about me. </p><p>Two peas inside of a pod, that's us.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. 10. We All Have Secrets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>warnings: mentions of sexual assault. If you are sensitive to sexual assault, please do not read this chapter. </p><p>chapter 10. </p><p>Innocent. Innocent is what I am. I attempt to tell myself that I am far from such, but at the end of the day, I fail to reach out of my comfort zone. I will think about everything I'd like to do, but my brain can only process so many prurient thoughts.</p><p>I'd have no issue allowing someone to do certain things to me, but me doing anything to someone else that isn't vanilla related is out of the question. I wouldn't want to hurt anyone. Such as give them rope burn or hurting their behind with anything; anything meaning including my hand. It's all done for pleasure, I understand that, but I cannot face choking or spanking. Unless it's...</p><p>It's funny to imagine myself wrapping my hand around another's throat, squeezing it tightly. All done in pleasure. But I am only twenty-six, so I cannot fully say I won't be interested in that in ten years. Who knows, I may go fully insane and blow my frustration onto someone else, but I'm Spencer Reid and that is unlike me.</p><p>I roll over in Y/N's bed, tangled in the white fluffy bedsheets she's just washed last night. I now face her and she's looking back at me, a smile illuminated by her large window. I can see every wrinkle that forms after she smiles and her nose scrunch up at the sight of me. She looks beautiful, just lying there with her hands next to her cheek.</p><p>"Hi," she whispers, like a happy wife after her wedding night.</p><p>"Hi," I reply in my groggy morning voice.</p><p>She lifts her hand to my face and looks into my eyes, smiling into the blacks of my pupils as if she can see a happy memory. I can't help but return the smile, mine more dull but still bright. As I look at her, taking in all of the glory and puffiness of cheeks, she lowers her lips onto mine.</p><p>Y/N plants a chaste kiss to my lips, sweet though we've both woken up. She removes her lips from mine but they remain hovered. "I really like you," she tells me in a low register, like she's trying not to wake anyone.</p><p>I softly laugh at her comment, wondering why she's told me when I know how in love she is. I can see it in her eyes every time she looks at me, how she laughs at every joke I make despite it not being funny. She's grown comfortable around me and so have I, so the nervousness that was once there has disappeared. I can no longer base her nervousness on her body language, but Y/N still finds a way to make it evident.</p><p>"I really like you too," I reply.</p><p>"It's 11, almost 12," Y/N continues. "You really were tired after what?...two, three-"</p><p>"Four," I state. My cheeks fill with crimson blush, puffed and large they must be by the way I feel inside. "Two in your bed, one in the shower and then the last one on your bed again."</p><p>Y/N pulls away, her curled lips pulling down into a crooked smile. She seems worried in some way at something. "I'm sorry," she says suddenly.</p><p>My eyebrows knit together, confusion lacing every corner of my face. She must think I'm regretting doing what we did last night. I enjoyed every second of it and was even disappointed when it ended. I wanted to continue, but our throats were dry even with the dozens of bottles of water we passed by.</p><p>"For what? I- I liked it," I reply, offering a warm and gentle smile. "I should be the one saying sorry. You um, you seemed..." I can't dig into my head for the word though it's glued to the front of my brain. She seemed hurt, but I don't want to say that because she must know already.</p><p>"I'm a little sore," Y/N whispers in a voice I do not believe. She cracks a smile and drops the lie she was holding in for two seconds. "Okay well I am sore, but I've had that happen to me before."</p><p>"It's happened before?" I ask. I shouldn't ask that question because it's an awfully dumb question. Of course she's felt sore after sex before.</p><p>"Well, yeah, but by playing sports in middle school," she says, laughing against my mouth. She's lying, but she's covering up the lie because there's something deeper that she doesn't want me to know. Not yet, at least. I can sense she wants to tell me though.</p><p>"After long and vigorous sex, it's normal for women to be sore. It's best for you to rest or to take a warm bath," I inform her. I would love to take her a bath, that was the reason why I stated the fact.</p><p>Y/N peppers me with kisses, her bare skin brushing against my clothed body underneath the sheets. Her kisses tickle me and I'm pushed into a fit of laughter, my body squirming lightly.</p><p>"Okay," I exclaim between breaths. "Okay, okay I can't breathe!"</p><p>Y/N removes her lips from my face and moves back slightly, herself out of breath. "I would love for you to-"</p><p>The doorbell brings us out of our moment and Y/N immediately jolts out of bed, her body stiff like she's been shocked. She turns to me and I raise my eyebrows and shoulders, confused at who might be at the door. Y/N doesn't really associate with anyone in the building, besides Eryn, who has a Mom who is rather.... odd.</p><p>Which now that I think about, might be the one at the door. We were exceedingly loud yesterday, but it was all in celebration for me helping solve a case. I should have been more quiet, although I already am quite quiet during sex.</p><p>"Miss Rose? I ask her.</p><p>"Shit," she curses. "I need to tell Eryn to keep their mom on a leash or something. She's so..."</p><p>"Annoying."</p><p>"Exactly."</p><p>Y/N stands up and rushes to the chair in the corner of her room, grabbing her red velvet slip dress and throwing it on. The doorbell continues to ring and Y/N groans loudly, rolling her head back at the ear splitting sound.</p><p>"Coming!" She yells, slugging towards the door.</p><p>I stand up and grab my Cal-Tech shirt from the floor, sliding it over my head and resting the hem on the top of my pants. I've grown taller over the years so the shirt has become smaller, but I still put it on even with the memories in mind.</p><p>I make my way through the door, my muscles tired and my posture failing to cooperate. I run my fingers past my hair, guiding it out of my face and laying it behind my ear. I walk through the hallway, already catching a glimpse of the snarky Miss Rose that lives below Y/N.</p><p>She is dressed in a purple long sleeve button up that is tucked into white wide pants and a large sweater tied around her shoulders. Marilyn Rose has wished to appear younger than she really is, but her attitude and overall looks do not sell her as such. She isn't the best woman that roams the streets of Virginia, even her children say so.</p><p>"Can I come in?" Miss Rose asks.</p><p>"I-" Miss Rose walks in anyways, looking around the room with a judgmental glare. "Yeah, of course you may come in."</p><p>Y/N sounds rude, she's spoken to Miss Rose that way since before we met. I've talked to her about it when I first encountered them in the same room, but once Y/N explained everything about her, I understood.</p><p>Miss Rose is conservative. She supports all of the wrong, inhumane laws and treats minorities with the utmost disrespect. She isn't only ill-mannered towards minorities, but to anyone who doesn't have around the same money as her. Y/N may dress differently and like different things than Miss Rose, but she receives a good amount of respect due to her parents having money.</p><p>Also, Miss Rose lives with Eryn, which is rather surprising because once again, she is conservative. Eryn does not like to be referred to as a woman, nor a man, and the old lady is not very fond of that. She continues to call Eryn a girl and continues to use the incorrect pronouns.</p><p>Now that is the reason neither of us enjoy her company.</p><p>"I have a question for you," Miss Rose tells Y/N, turning around in her stance.</p><p>"What is it Ma'am?" Y/N turns towards my direction, rolling her eyes without knowing that Miss Rose can still see what she is doing.</p><p>"Are you pregnant?"</p><p>If I had water in my mouth, it would be sprayed all over the room, dripping down every wall. The question has caught me by surprise and I wonder where she's thought of that. Y/N and I haven't thought about children. We haven't even spoken about marriage yet, because we've only been speaking for two months.</p><p>I walk up behind Y/N, holding onto her side as she continues the conversation that is taking place. "Why would you think that?"</p><p>Miss Rose lets out a sarcastic laugh, shaking her head and taking a deep breath once she's done. "Well Eryn and I have heard things recently."</p><p>Y/N shifts her body, clearly uncomfortable at what she's just heard. "Oh god, I'm sorry were they in the middle of painting?"</p><p>Miss Rose rolls her eyes, her face turning down into the same disgusted face she applies when anyone uses Eryn's preferred pronouns. "She," she says in an irked tone. "I do not understand why this generation is so messed up. There are only two genders and that is it. I don't get it, why can't you all just stick to boy and girl? It's all about what kind of genitals you have."</p><p>I scrunch my eyebrows, concerned at where this conversation is heading. I clear my throat, ready to speak to her about her opinion and at least try to get her to understand. "Actually, gender is a social construct that was created long ago and isn't entirely accurate. Actually it isn't accurate at all, in fact-"</p><p>"Okay, young fellow, I was not speaking to you," she cuts me off, giving me a look that could burn holes through my body.</p><p>I instantly feel a rush of heat run through my body, filling my cheeks with the red pigment I so strongly detest. I cough to relieve the anxiety building inside of me, but it's failed like the many times prior. I bring my hand to my face and brush away the nonexistent piece of hair behind my ear, shifting in my stance as I do so.</p><p>Y/N takes my hand from her hip and pulls me to her left, holding it in hers tightly. She's told me that she  receives a feeling when I am anxious or uncomfortable in any situation. I may give it away with my gestures and such, but she's clarified that it has nothing to do with that. It is simply her body telling her something is wrong.</p><p>"Marilyn, what are you doing here, if I may ask? I know you didn't walk into my apartment to simply give me shit about having sex," Y/N snaps back at the old lady in front of her, clearly having enough of what she's said in the small time frame.</p><p>Miss Rose seems unbothered by the language Y/N has used, but she narrows her eyes like she has something to say. Something that will push every button in Y/N's body. I have learned that Miss Rose and Y/N have a continuous hate-hate relationship, which has been evident since the day I first saw them interact.</p><p>They do not like one another due to their separate beliefs and them having a large age gap that does not consist of any bonding. They have nothing to speak about besides Miss Rose being born into the second to last year of the Great Depression and Y/N talking about... well having depression in her last years of High School.</p><p>"That language. You know, back in my day-"</p><p>"Back in your day women had ten kids by the age of twenty three. And also, women in the 1800's probably banged it out every day. Even in those big dresses," Y/N shoots, her hand even more sweaty than when she first gripped onto it.</p><p>Miss Rose stands up slowly, her pale face dragging on the floor and her tattooed eyebrows finding a way to droop down. "You, my girl... You face those art major stereotypes alright."</p><p>Y/N turns and follows Miss Rose, leading her to the door. "And what are those stereotypes Marilyn?"</p><p>They both reach the door, Y/N's hand on the doorknob while Miss Rose is standing behind her. "They're all stupid."</p><p>My eyes widen and my jaw clenches, the anger I've fallen victim of taking over my body. I look at Y/N to see her reaction, and she's calm, collected as though she wants Marilyn to think that she will not break apart when the door closes.</p><p>Y/N opens the door and the old lady steps out, her movements slow like any woman in her mid 70's. She swivels around and stares Y/N in the eyes, her black pupils darkening her pale being. "Just keep the screaming at a minimum, I don't want to hear all of that commotion while I watch my Golden Girls."</p><p>"Will try my best," Y/N replies. Marilyn takes a step back and turns to the right where the elevators are located. Y/N slowly pushes the door, but slams it as soon as it's a few inches from closing.</p><p>Aggravated, I can tell.</p><p>I place my hands in my pockets and sulk towards her, my mind rotating with jokes I want to say. I'm not the person to make jokes about people, especially since I was made fun of for years on end, but a joke here and there is fun. Comical.</p><p>"You know, maybe you shouldn't make fun of her anymore," I state with a hint of laughter rising in my voice.</p><p>Y/N turns to face me, her eyebrows drawn together and her eyes narrowing on me like she's ready to attack me. "What? Why?"</p><p>My mouth begins to crack and the smile I tried shoving away comes back, wider than I expected. "Because she's ancient. Miss Rose probably hasn't had sex in over ten years."</p><p>Y/N's mouth falls open and she shakes her head, as if she's disappointed at me for making a joke. So unlike Spencer, she might think, because I never make jokes. But I think it's okay. Marilyn has been overly rude towards everyone and does not pay mind to it. She needs someone to tap her on the shoulder and tell her that she's in the wrong 99% of the time.</p><p>She comes towards me and wraps her hands around my neck, bringing me in for a kiss. I look at her, smiling so brightly as if we did not wake up ten minutes ago. We look at one another with content, happiness and some kind of satisfaction with the reminder of the encounter from a minute ago. </p><p>I press my nose against hers, leaning my forehead on hers as well. Though Miss Rose deserved what she received, I still feel a pang of shame shock me. My mom would not agree with me making jokes about an elder behind their back, no matter who it is. But my mom would also agree with me if I were to tell her about Miss Rose and what she's said and done. </p><p>I shove the feelings of guilt back into the packed compartment in my body and continue looking at the girl I cannot get enough of. "So, what's the plan for today?" I ask her. </p><p>She leans back and inspects my face, searching every wrinkle hidden behind my soft skin. She continues turning her head like a puppy, finally resting in front of me. "A party." </p><p>"A party?" </p><p>Y/N nods, pulling away but keeping her arms wrapped around my neck. "Not a young people party, don't worry I know how you'll get. Just my mom's birthday party at my parents house." </p><p>I scrunch my nose and squint my eyes, my jaw clenching at the thought of meeting her entire family. Not her mom or dad, but her aunts and uncles and her brother. And by the pictures I have seen, her brother is the size of Morgan; maybe even more buff than Morgan. </p><p>"Yeah, yeah I can't wait," I exclaim, although I already begin to overthink every moment that will take place after I enter that house. Her mother loves me, but I've never had the chance to meet her father nor her brother or other family members, so I do not know if they will love me or not. </p><p>I hope so. I really enjoy Y/N's presence and I soon want to make her my girlfriend. And if her family does not enjoy my presence, well that won't change the plan I made for Y/N and I's future, but it will make me far more insecure. </p><p>"Great," Y/N says. "It starts at 7:30." </p><p>"Great." </p><p>•------------------------•</p><p>I take a look at myself in the mirror, looking at the person who is still trying to figure themselves out. I despise mirrors. It's as though they are made so you can look at yourself for hours upon end until you point out every flaw and set in on a table to hate them even more. But I have to look at them. </p><p>I decided to get a haircut today before coming home and cleaning myself up. It isn't as long as it was before, but it is up to my ear, swept away and not in my face as much. Y/N enjoys my hair, she says she has more fun combing through my locks, but I needed to refresh the hair for tonight. </p><p>I pat down my pants, checking the mirror each time to see if the wrinkles have gone away. I do not have an iron nor do I have a washer or clean clothing, so I have to stick with pants that were in the back of my closet. I do have a pair of black pants at Y/N's apartment, but I am not sure if she would let me change into them before we head to her parent's house. </p><p>I take in a deep breath and flick my eyes to the mirror, taking myself in and every drab piece of clothing on my scrawny body. I've tried to learn how to love myself and how thin I am, but every comment Y/N makes about how much she loves me no matter my weight has failed to work. I sigh, picking at the black sweater vest over my white dress shirt and maroon tie. </p><p>Y/N does not judge, but who knows if her family will. Every family is different, especially those who have money. I may not appear as one to be wealthy- swimming in pools of money- but I do have enough money to buy what interests me, I just do not choose to. I take care of my money and save up for something I would like to spend it on in the future. </p><p>Such as family. </p><p>I know adults are beginning to have children in their late twenties and early thirties, and that is why I want to participate in that. I am twenty-six, which means four years until I turn thirty and fourteen years until I am forty. I want to have kids before forty, because I want to be able to bond with them for as long as I can before I become immobile. </p><p>I know who I want to carry my children. It's Y/N. I keep reminding myself that it has only been two months and we need to take everything slow, but there is no way either one of us can go as slow as we promised one another. We are too far into this "relationship" to slow down all of a sudden. I've spoken to Y/N and she agreed with me, but at the moment I forgot about what I should have taken into consideration. The first being age. </p><p>Y/N is twenty-two, almost twenty-three, which is young to have a child. Not far too young, because I've met wonderful people who had their first child at a young age, but Y/N seems to be an independent woman who wants nothing more than to be with herself and one more person. That one person being me. </p><p>Y/N has a list of baby names written on a piece of paper taped next to her vanity, which may mean that she does want children, but it never had a specified age. I would constantly fight the urge to ask her, and I have kept fighting to this day. If she wants to be independent for a few more years, I can wait. I can always wait for her. </p><p>My phone rings and I snap out of my coursing thoughts, immediately rushing to my bedroom. I maneuver around the large pile of dirty laundry and grab the cellphone from my dresser, turning it over and picking up. </p><p>"Hello?" I say, out of breath from running with all of the energy stored inside of me. </p><p>"Hi, I wanted to ask if you were coming any time soon," Y/N asks me, attentiveness in her voice. </p><p>I peer at the clock on my dresser, the time reading 7:35 P.M.. I told her I would pick her up at 7:20 which means I am late. Very late. "Dammit. I will uh, I will be there in a couple of minutes. I'm sorry," I apologize, my heart pumping rapidly like it might burst out of my chest at any moment. </p><p>She laughs over the phone, a smile evident in the way she speaks. "It's okay. Most of my family will be late anyways." </p><p>"You sure?" I ask, lacking the reassurance I need to keep moving. </p><p>"I'm sure Angel, just come on so you can change out of your pants." </p><p>"What?" I look down at my pants once more, the wrinkles appearing more noticeable in the bright lamp above me. "How did you know that?" </p><p>"I'm a weird lady. Just kidding, I went to your apartment two nights ago and you were running low on clothes so I figured you would be wearing a dirty pair of pants." </p><p>I nod, which pulls an unwanted piece of hair into my face. I guide the hair out of my face and slick it behind my ear, resting it with the rest of the tamed waves. "Of course I was. I'll make it over right now." </p><p>"Kk, be safe bub, I lo- be safe."</p><p>Y/N hangs up before I can even say goodbye, but I can sense what she wanted to say so I don't feel worried. Well I do, because I know the three worded sentence she was about to say, but I understand that it may have been an automatic response. One that falls out of the mouth whenever you hold a conversation with someone close. Obviously by accident. At least that's what I will tell myself so I will not make her feel uncomfortable. </p><p>I place my phone in my pocket and walk through the door and to the front entrance, taking my keys from the dish on my desk and my satchel laid on my brown chair. I turn back and take one last look around the small apartment, checking to see if anything is left on without me knowing. Nothing is on, so I open the door and head out, running my hand behind to lock it. I turn the lock and finally close the door, turning the knob two times so I can make sure no one can open it. </p><p>I inhale deeply and turn on my feet, heading down the flight of stairs which is always a pain in the ass to walk down. I wonder why the manager has no elevators, but I've met her and she seems like a fit middle aged lady so I understand. </p><p>I descend the stairs and walk through the door to my car, parked in a small spot because I usually take the metro. I reach the car and stick the key into the lock, turning it and opening the car door. It smells of coffee. I take my coffee cups everywhere and since Y/N has been informing me about using recycling, I have taken all of my recyclable cups from the car and thrown them into their designated bin. </p><p>It must be the scent that has attached itself to every part of the car. I enjoy the small though, it reminds me of the coffee at work that tastes old. It is in fact disgusting in most states I attend cases in, but after long hours of working, anything seems appetizing. </p><p>I throw my satchel on the passenger's seat, sitting myself down into the drivers side of the unused car. I close the door and take the keys wrapped in my slender fingers, inserting the small key into the ignition. I turn it and it starts, the engine loud then softening. </p><p>I fasten my seatbelt and take in a long breath, cracking my knuckles on the steering wheel for good luck. I take my right hand off of the steering wheel and switch the car into drive, pressing my foot on the gas to pull out of the parking spot. </p><p>I pull out of the spot and begin my small journey to Y/N's apartment, passing by the small and large buildings. I look around as I drive, the silence allowing my brain to play any song it wishes to listen to. I look out of the windows, smiling at the many parks I pass by and the coffee shops I like to visit every now and then. </p><p>I then near the wealthier neighborhoods; the houses that are made up of three stories or more. The houses that are so large they have a small backyard. Then I pass by dozens of mothers going on a walk together like they are in some kind of club. I smile because I see the small children in strollers, some with small sun hats and others with outfits that match the sunset. They are all in a hurry, which reminds me of ducks crossing the street, all in a line and in a fast pace. </p><p>I finally reach the last of the mothers and the last parks that are outside of the gated communities. I also reach the complex Y/N lives in, which is illuminated with a lion on the front gate, it's eyes being the ones lighting up. </p><p>I type in her code and wait a few seconds, the gate opening for me and the person behind me as well. I drive in and turn on the first stop sign, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel out of a combination of emotions. I am excited to see Y/N despite us seeing one another not too long ago. She amazes me with her looks every time she pops into sight. </p><p>I make it to her building and she is already outside, waiting for me with a small denim bag in hand, turning over and over due to her fingers twisting the strap. I stop in front of her and pull down the window, offering her a warm smile. </p><p>"Hi pretty lady, do you- uhm, do you want a ride?" I sound pathetic. The flirting and the pick up line she used on me the first time we hung out. The words falling out of my mouth do not belong there, they are unrecognizable, but I used them because I thought they would sound amazing. Cool, even. </p><p>Y/N scoffs, her lips curving into a smile at what I've offered. "Of course I do." She maneuvers around the car and opens the passengers side door, moving aside my satchel and lowering herself inside of my low car. She straps the seatbelt on and turns to look at me, giving me a sarcastic thumbs up. </p><p>I look deeply into her eyes, searching into how dark they've come to look. She's scared, I can see it in the overwhelming amount of sarcasm used in her actions. Y/N can be sarcastic, but this time it is flowing in. Her mood has changed the feeling of the small space. </p><p>"Is there something wrong?" I decide to ask. My eyes flick to her stiff body, her arms curled in between her covered thighs. She's clearly worried. She doesn't respond, all she does is stare out of the window, watching the sky turn dark. "Y/N?" </p><p>"Huh?" </p><p>"Are you okay? Is something wrong?" </p><p>She sulks in her seat, her head falling to the side of the headrest. "No, everything is okay, I promise." </p><p>I press my lips together, shaking my head gently so Y/N cannot catch on to what I am thinking. Y/N is not okay, she needs to talk about what is happening but is not sure how to reach out. I cannot come to a halt and ask her what is happening on the side of a road while cars zoom by, but if I become that desperate, I will. </p><p>I care about Y/N and if something is wrong, I want to know. We promised one another we would tell one another if something was wrong. Except maybe this time she is keeping it to herself because it is a secret- one she wants to keep to herself. </p><p>I do not ask, because I plan on talking to her about it while we are in a comfortable setting. </p><p>I exit the apartment complex and head onto the road once more, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and looking at the parks around me and the small shops that are filled with hungry people of all kinds. I wonder what is on their mind; if they are worried about their significant other like I am or if they are buying a certain something for a certain someone; if they are having a celebratory dinner. </p><p>But that all doesn't matter in the moment, because my mind is only set on Y/N. Her sad and wary face; anxious as to what is awaiting. I wonder as well- what she is thinking or stressing over. A family member she has hate for? Issues that will be the center of attention when eating? Me? I would and will never be the center of conversation, but it has to be put into mind. </p><p>I want to know how she is, that is all. I do not want my sweet girl to suffer in silence, no matter how small it is. </p><p>I reach her mother's street and look out of the window, passing by the dim houses that have little to no cars in the front of their house. We spot her parent's house and stop, taking a look at the cars practically stacked on top of each other. </p><p>"You never told me you had a big family," I say, sparking conversation. </p><p>She sits up in the seat and looks at me, a sign of help covering her features. "Yeah, I guess I do." </p><p>I nod my head and pull into a compact spot, switching the car into park and taking the keys out of the ignition. I place the keys into my pocket and open the door, stepping out and running around the car to Y/N. I open the door and hold on to her hand, sarcastically bending down to lighten the mood. </p><p>I close the door and she waits by the curb, twisting and turning the purse in her fingertips. I take her hand in mine and look in her eyes, gazing into them with the most sympathy I can give. I lean into her and press a kiss to her lips, then another and another until the stone serious expression softens. </p><p>"I really like you love, really. And I don't know if you know, but I pay close attention to you and I can sense something is wrong," I finally state. "Is anything wrong?" </p><p>Y/N bites down on her lip and swallows the lump that she so evidently wanted to swallow down for a while. "I think someone I don't want to be here is here." </p><p>"Oh," I whisper. She is silent, and I take the response as a queue to not continue the conversation. </p><p> She grabs onto my hand and pulls me to the front door, holding me so tightly as if I might disappear in a fragment of a second. She places her hand on the doorknob, hindering for a moment. She doesn't want to enter, I can see it, but she knows she must. Well she doesn't have to attend the party, except it is her mother's and her mother is kind. </p><p>Y/N deeply inhales and then exhales, opening the door as soon as she does so. We walk in and everyone is staring at us, their mouths open and their expressions still. This must have been a surprise party, I think in my head. </p><p>Like any embarrassing moment I am set in, I freeze and my cheeks turn red. I look around the room, checking every person and profiling each one in my head. Their faces are contorted into confused expressions, but I can still read everyone just fine. </p><p>"Y/N!" A man shouts from down below. I take a break from profiling her family and look at the man standing in front of us, down the large hallway that now appears short in distance. He stares at Y/N, then at me. Especially me. "And who is this?" </p><p>I peer down at Y/N and she looks into my eyes, a look of "please follow me on this." I nod my head and she returns to the man, smiling largely. "This is my boyfriend, Spencer Reid." </p><p>The man's eyebrows raise and he glares at me, his jaw tightening while he looks me up and down. "Boyfriend? You mean that toothpick is your boyfriend," he laughs. </p><p>Y/N grips my hand tighter, her nails digging into the front of my hand. She means well; she is trying to tell me to not take any of what he is saying seriously. Thankfully, I am not. I do not know who this man is, but he is obviously not a man that spreads joy. </p><p>I take a more clear look at the man, look down at him and check every detail about his clothing and the way he speaks to people and how he holds objects. He is an aggressive man and it can be shown by the grip on the beer bottle in his hand. </p><p>"That man is clearly a pussy," he continues. </p><p>My jaw clenches and instead of Y/N digging her nails into me, I am digging mine into hers. I may not be taking his comments to heart, but they can still hit a nerve. I want him to keep it down, not be so judgmental when Y/N's family is gathered around. </p><p>"Shut up, we are not doing this," Y/N cries, her words coming out raspy and tired. </p><p>He points at me and laughs evilly. "That man is a pussy, daisy. You know that?" </p><p>Daisy, I think? A nickname he has given her. The name has never come up in any conversation we have held, which begins to turn the bulbs in my head. </p><p>"Shut up, leave him alone. He is perfectly fine and he makes me happy," Y/N yells. </p><p>The man shakes his head, taking a long sip of the cold beer in his hand. "Come on daisy, I was just joking." He begins coming towards us, his laugh vibrating in my head, breaking every bone in my body from how malice it sounds. </p><p>Y/N takes my hand and pushes past him, turning right into a dark hallway that has a door at the end of the hall. For how many times I have visited her parents home, she has never showed me her room.</p><p>The pushes the door open and pulls me inside the dark and cold bedroom, shutting the door with all madness that the sound echoes through the room and most likely the house as well. She locks the door and turns to me, her eyes already shedding tears. </p><p>We have barely entered and the hate has begun. It has hit us in the face with such power, hatred and I wonder why. Why was the man so rude when I kept my silence? I was doing nothing but standing next to Y/N while she clung onto me. </p><p>She sulks towards me and I open my arms, pulling her into a tight hug. She sobs into my chest, her shoulders racking against me. Hearing her cry is like a stake to the heart- painful and sure to kill you. </p><p>"Baby," I whisper. I run my hand along the top of her head, brushing her forehead with my thumb. "Take a deep breath, come on. You can do this." </p><p>I can feel her nod and her sobs stop for a moment, only her sniffles audible. She takes in a shaky deep breath and holds it for five excruciatingly long seconds. Then she exhales. She changes the position of where her cheek is resting and tightens her arms around me, cracking my spine for me. </p><p>We stay that way for a moment- her softly crying into my chest while I run my hand along the top of her head. I press soft kisses on her forehead every now and then to calm her, and they have seemed to help. </p><p>Soon her sniffles come to an end and her arms loosen. "I lied to you about something," she murmurs. </p><p>I knit my eyebrows, slightly confused at her sentence. "What do you mean?" </p><p>Y/N pulls away and takes my hand, pulling me down onto the floor of her pitch black room. The only source of light is the light from the hallway, but that does not suffice. I hold her hand in my sweaty palm and run my thumb over her skin and fingers, massaging each one. </p><p>Y/N takes a deep breath and speaks up, her voice soft but still heard. "When I was fifteen, something happened to me. I uhm, well it was a day in August and my family was having a small party at Aunt's house. I didn't put on my bathing suit when I was at home so I had to change at her house. I was fifteen at the time and I was growing. I was flat like a board the summer before and no one had really seen me until that party." Y/N sniffles while gathering her words. I'm already worried about what she has to say. "When I got to my aunt's house, I went to her bathroom and started changing. I thought I locked the door... but I guess not." </p><p>I sit there, staring blankly at the black wall that shines even in the darkness. I cannot pull myself to speak, because I cannot say "sorry this happened to you, you're okay" because that does not help a victim. I wish I knew how to react, how to say every little thing that could make a large impact on someone. That is only a wish though. I have many thoughts and sayings I want to tell Y/N, but my throat becomes tired and I cannot say one word. </p><p>"While I was changing, my uncle walked in and just..." she sniffles, "stared at me. I asked him to leave so many times and he just shut the door behind him and... did it. I tried yelling for help Spencer, I swear I did. But no one listened. And no one listened the thousands of times it happened after. That man followed me to college, Spencer. He held me down and did whatever the hell he wanted to do to me until I turned seventeen." Y/N takes her hands out of mine and pushes my knees down, leaning her body on my lower half. I open my arms and she lays on my lap, her body huddled into a fetus position. </p><p>I feel ultimately horrible for her. I want to piece her back together, tell her that I will forever protect her and that no matter what, I will be by her side. I want to hold her hand everywhere I go. And sure, I can tell her that, but it will be no use because she will still feel unsafe. The years of pain and suffering have affected her negatively and will forever leave a scar. </p><p>"I didn't lose my virginity to that guy in college, I lost it to my uncle," she sobs. </p><p>I shake my head, whispering "no's" under my breath. "You didn't lose it to him, love, he took it from you. He's evil and does not deserve anything in life." </p><p>"I am so sorry, Spencer. Please forgive me," Y/N pleads, asking me to forgive her as though she did anything wrong. The effects of that man were unspeakable, cruel and malice. He does not deserve to be here, smiling and cracking jokes when the person he hurt for years remains traumatized. </p><p>I lean down next to her ear and press a kiss to her cheek, whispering encouragements while she hugs me tightly. "Do not be sorry, ever. This was not your fault, you hear me?" </p><p>"But Spencer-" </p><p>"This was not your fault, dear." I run my hand along her head, my cold fingers soothing her warm forehead.  </p><p>Y/N is a queen; she is strong and she has continued on with life despite being under a storm for two and a half years. That is what I love about her as well- how strong she is and how she only sees the good in people. It is threatening, just like most good qualities, but she had found a way to keep moving forward. The reminder of what he had done was dragging her, but she continued. </p><p>I want her to know that I am proud of her, but in a different form. Not everyone shares their love in the way of words, but I like to. I am infatuated and I cannot move on without telling her so. She needs this, too. She wants to know that someone appreciates her presence, and for me, how much someone loves her. </p><p>I do, love her. It may be spiraling out of control and it is most definitely too early, but I do not care. I do not want to apply the general rules for relationships into what I have with Y/N. What has sparked is nothing I have ever witnessed, so I must set this straight so I can come to terms with what I feel.</p><p>I want Y/N to feel like she can tell me anything, be anything without me judging her. She was created beautifully and should be told so. </p><p>I love her. I do not care if it is too early, it is what I feel and it is what I will say. I am infatuated, smitten by her. I am. </p><p>But all said in a whisper. </p><p>Because when said too loud, it shatters the world with the love we share. And although that may seem like a good idea, we need certain things and with no world, we ourselves have no world. </p><p>So when our love is accepted, I will scream the three word sentence. Scream it so everyone can hear it.</p><p>So everyone can hear me scream: "I love you, Y/N  Y/L/N." </p><p>•------------------------•</p><p>a/n:  sexual assault hotline: 1-800-656-4673 </p><p>(badly written chapter which is also 7000+ words but who cares because the story is sad and has happened to so many young girls and women. I love you all, remember.) </p><p>- keyly.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. 11. Moon, Sapphire, and Baby Fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>chapter 11.</p><p>warnings: mentions of sexual assault and domestic abuse. if you hate children, then I suggest you to just... not continue to read this story because it will contain a lot of  baby fever. </p><p>Life becomes incapable of living when you tell someone one of your deepest darkest secrets. A secret you've wanted to keep locked away for so long that whenever your mind chooses who to tell, it falls out so easily but with troublesome consequences.</p><p> </p><p>That was you telling Spencer about what happened seven- almost eight- years ago. The moment was so quick and for him to understand why you acted the way you did, you had to tell him. And thankfully, he understood. Understood enough from someone who hadn't been sexually assaulted for two years.</p><p>You lay your head on his lap in your dark room, every magazine and poster hidden from sight. The only source of light is the hallway light slipping between the cracks of the door. You cannot see Spencer all that well, but you can feel him underneath you and that's all that matters.</p><p>Spencer runs his hand along your head, his fingertips gently brushing your forehead with each pass by. He murmurs classical songs he's played in your apartment and even songs you've played.</p><p>You think back on the day you've had, your stomach turning at the events that took place when you had both woken up. Miss Rose coming into your apartment with a ridiculous question. "Are you pregnant?" was quite a question to ask.</p><p>Of course you want to have kids, but not now. Not after only two months of knowing one another. You want more time to be as independent as possible, and maybe if Spencer is still around, you would like to have a child.</p><p>It's all about how you raise a child as well. Many people are now hating the idea of children running around their home, and you respect their choices, but some say so because kids are loud and rather annoying.</p><p>You think it depends on how you raise them. If you want a quiet and preserved child then you raise them in a quiet environment and you teach them about what you think will work. Though you also have to take in the child's wants because not all enjoy being quiet- nose stuck in books and school work.</p><p>You think you'll be a great mother. Though the question Marilyn asked still makes you giggle. How could she ask that? Simply because you and Spencer have been having more sex than is recommended? Or maybe she is jealous of young individuals finding one another attractive enough to engage in sexual intercourse.</p><p>For someone in their late seventies, she must miss the feeling.</p><p>You laugh quietly, giggling at the look on her face when she saw you open the door in a "provocative" choice of clothing. And how she almost reached out to touch your stomach because she wanted to feel. She would feel nothing, which was even more hilarious.</p><p>"What?" asks Spencer, removing his hand from your forehead momentarily.</p><p>You shake your head and swallow down the threatening laugh, wiping away your face with the back of your hand as well. "Nothing," you reply. "I was just thinking about what Miss Rose said."</p><p>"About you being..."</p><p>"Pregnant. It's funny. Simply because we've been having sex so much she thinks I'm pregnant." You fiddle with your fingers, which are sweaty from keeping your hand in a fist for so long. You look out into the pitch black room, outlining the figure of your chair which connects to your vanity.</p><p>"Don't take her comments seriously, love. You don't look pregnant nor do I think you are," Spencer reassures in a whisper. "Miss Rose is just... questionable. She doesn't think thoroughly before she speaks."</p><p>You shift your body, now looking up at the ceiling. You catch a glimpse of Spencer looking down at you, his black eyes still seeming so sweet and caring. You smile although he cannot see it, but by how wide your lips curl, you're sure he can hear your skin crack at the corners. You don't reply, simply because you know he knows you won't listen. You aren't the kind of person to have a care in the world at what an old lady says about you.</p><p>You kind of thank Marylin for reminding you of the dreams of having a child. Having a little child follow you around and want to be like you despite you wanting them not to. Not annoying, of course, though they will have their annoying stage at some point in life. It is just the love that fills you when thinking of names and outfits that are bright and adorable.</p><p>"Yeah I uh, I liked that she reminded me of it though. Like just thinking about a baby and how I get to name it and raise it and stuff. Be a good mom," you say at the end of a silence.</p><p>The light has grown brighter, which is confusing because there isn't a way it could become brighter. But you can now see Spencer better, catch his reactions to what you say. You aren't implying that you two create a baby now, because you cannot pull yourself to have a baby so soon. You just like the idea. Some say it is "baby fever", which goes away soon, but you've had it ever since you were sixteen and it never went away.</p><p>"I'm waiting though, of course," you add to soothe his nervousness. "Who knows what is going to happen, so I'm waiting."</p><p>He nods, trying to recover from the anxiety rising statement. "Yeah, yeah I understand." </p><p>You bring your hand up to his cheek, caressing his smooth baby skin. He leans his face into your touch, moving his cheek back and forth like a kitten. Spencer enjoys it when you hold his face in your hands or when you play with his hair, he says it feels warm and he senses an overwhelming amount of love. </p><p>It's rather adorable just watching him lean into your touch like he is deprived. You make sure he doesn't go a day without cuddling up with him or giving him a kiss, because you know he cannot go longer than 24 hours. He doesn't sleep over every night, but he passes by your apartment after work to give you a kiss or to hang out. </p><p>And when he is on cases, he calls every day when he can to check up on you. He's created a schedule to call you and does not miss any calls. Nothing new happens every hour but it's sweet to receive a call from him; you do not grow tired of his soft voice. </p><p>Spencer leans down and plants a chaste kiss on your lips, sweet. You take in the smell of lavender- a scent you use and one he's complimented you on so many times. You've smelled peppermint on him before as well, it is almost his assigned scent, which you have taken up. You both have sort of switched scents and you are not complaining. </p><p>"Thank you," you whisper between innocent kisses. </p><p>"For what?" he asks. </p><p>"For not thinking I was lying," you answer. "My parents didn't think I was, thankfully. Which is confusing because that jackass is here tonight, but you are one of the couple of people who have believed me." </p><p>"What about Clara?" </p><p>You take in a deep breath, thinking about the question that has been on your mind ever since you told Clara. She seemed sad and sympathetic, but it honestly did not sell. Her voice was too fake and her face was as well. You tried brushing it off, but her face was glued behind your eyelids. </p><p>"She's one too," you whisper. You look at him, searching the unidentifiable face. "But still, thank you. I really, um... like you for that." </p><p>He chuckles softly and presses a kiss to your forehead, the one to follow up. "It's not a problem, love." </p><p>"Y/N?" a voice says through the door. "Is Spencer in there with you?" That is in fact your dad, and Spencer sure is with you. </p><p>You clear your throat and sit up, fixing your dress which has found its way into every crevice of your body. Spencer passes his hand over the top of your head one last time and gets up, grabbing your hand with him. </p><p>"Yes," you reply. </p><p>"Can he come out for a sec?"</p><p>"Yeah, hold on a second." You move to the vanity on the right wall and look for the switch for the light. You finally find it after fumbling over a few things and turn it on, the bright white lights blinding you. You turn to look at him, his warm smile taking over his face. </p><p>"You look beautiful," he states. </p><p>You look at him sideways, looking at him as if every word he has said is unbelievable. To you, it is unbelievable. You saw your reflection in the mirror and your cheeks were stained with eyeliner and mascara. You should have used waterproof mascara, but you hate how difficult it is to wash off. "Shut up," you reply to his compliment. "Go out there." </p><p>He looks at you with confusion, his face already asking the question you wonder as well. "Why does he want to talk to me?" </p><p>You shrug your shoulders and he nods, shuffling to the large closed door. He opens the door and steps out, closing it behind him slowly. You bite on your lip, worried as to what your dad will tell Spencer. He probably thinks Spencer doesn't know the details behind the incident. </p><p>You turn around and pull out the chair underneath your vanity, sitting on the velvet cushion. You look at yourself in the mirror, searching your face for every hint of pain that has snuck back into you. You have hidden away the trauma for so long and you have been able to forget about it for hours at a time, but now that you have recalled most of the story, the same pain in your heart has returned. </p><p>You place your elbows on the tabletop, laying your chin between your hands as you listen in on the conversation. They try their best to stay quiet, but it's not working. You keep your breaths low, paying attention to their back and forth sentences. </p><p>"Is she okay? You know what happened to her I suppose," your dad whispers. </p><p>"Yes sir I do. She told me all about it," Spencer returns. </p><p>A pat on the shoulder is audible, and your dad continues. "You believe her, right?" </p><p>"Of course I do." </p><p>"Good, that's good son. But uh, come out when she's ready. That jackass is gone and the rest of the family wants to see you both," your dad advises. He pats his shoulder and the clacking of his dress shoes are heard. They become distant, and then they disappear. </p><p>The doorknob turns and you flick your eyes back to yourself, wiping away the mixture of makeup on your face. Spencer walks in and closes the door, walking towards you with a sigh flying past his mouth. He isn't tired of you, he is simply unable to process all that was fed to him. </p><p>All of the information you gave him not too long ago is a lot for a person, even a genius. He is a normal person despite being a genius and like most people who are in a situation such as this one, it is difficult for them to process. </p><p>He stands behind you and snakes his hand underneath your chin, jutting it to the ceiling and planting a kiss on your lips. He repeats the kiss, slowly moving to a more comfortable position all while continuing the kiss. </p><p>He kneels down and you wrap your hands around his neck, entwining your fingers on pieces of his soft curly hair. You stand up and push him back towards your bed, your hands still behind his neck where you've pulled his hair multiple times already. </p><p>Spencer enjoys his hair being pulled on. That is something you have noticed ever since you began taking things to the next level. He groans and his mouth opens wide when you pull on his hair to kiss on his neck and it's a sight that will turn your legs into jelly. </p><p>You push him onto the bed and climb on top of him, your legs hovering over his waist. You lean in and hover your face over his, smiling down at him. He lets out an inhibited breath, his lips parted and a curl falling onto his face. He looks beautiful. </p><p>He sits up on his elbows, his shirt and cardigan messy. Your eyes trail down his body and land on his crotch, where his pants- the ones he never changed out of- are tight around his erection. You look back up at him and offer a smirk, your eyes eating at his skin. </p><p>He shakes his head, his movements slow as if he is telling himself not to agree. You know he wants you to touch him so he won't be in pain for pleasure, but he can't pull himself to allow you. There are people at the end of the hallway, which everything would be covered by the music and loud talking, but you understand and accept if he does not want to do anything. </p><p>You pull your right leg over his body and sit down on your bed, fixing your dress as well. You wring your hands together on your lap and look to all corners of the room, admiring the room you rarely visit. You have become far more independent over the years and now do not spend as much time with your parents as you used to. </p><p>Spencer sits up as well and guides pieces of his hair out of his face, his breaths deep and rapid but slowing down and becoming more steady. You stay silent so he can calm down. </p><p>You think your mind will reset and think back to the days before today, but your mind replays the moment that isn't quite appropriate in the moment. God, you keep thinking about kids and it is all because of Marilyn. She now has you thinking about your image and if you look pregnant or if you actually have a fetus growing inside of you. </p><p>She is a sketchy old lady, who knows what she knows or performs behind closed doors. </p><p>In the midst of the silence, you smile. You're reminded of someone special you knew in high school. You were close with Clara, but she was not your only friend. You were friends with a senior who was going through a rough time in her life and she was the main reason you always wanted a child. </p><p>She was in a relationship with some guy in college and she would come to school with noticeable bruises on her wrists and neck, sometimes on her face. She knew you weren't oblivious and knew about sex, so she would say, "oh, we just like it rough."  </p><p>You knew that was a lie because as much as you understood what rough sex was, it was definitely not under that. You were being molested during the time and you knew how to distinguish love bruises from "those" bruises. You had seen hickeys and slight bruising from girls being choked, but not what either of you had. </p><p>But you still nodded and tried your best to make her think you believed her. </p><p>She continued to come to school with bruises and you would continue to ask her about them. She brushed the comments aside up until the last week of school. She said, "Y/N, you cannot tell anyone this, okay?" You nodded and she told you what happened. "I'm pregnant with his baby, but I have a feeling he's going to kill me. If he does, just know that I really like you. You're one of the best friends I've ever had." </p><p>The comment made you smile but it made you worried. You turned into a wary mess and all you wanted to do was help her. You knew how to drive- you had your permit- but you didn't know where she lived and you knew that a sixteen year old girl was not going to do anything. </p><p>That same class period, she handed you her silver sapphire ring. It was a small silver band and it had the sapphire gem in the shape of a moon. The reason for the stone was because of her birthstone and the shape was because of her name- moon. It was beautiful, unique. A name everyone thought was odd but a name you couldn't get out of your mind. </p><p>You never assigned it a gender because you always felt the name would be neutral. </p><p>Though that wasn't the reason you wanted to have a child. It was because she died the next week. She delivered you the news and the ring on the Monday of the last week of school and never showed up the days following. Then you heard about her passing due to domestic abuse. </p><p>She died with her baby. </p><p>That was the reason you wanted to have a baby; she would have been a great mother, but she never had the opportunity. </p><p>"Y/N?" Spencer asks, tapping on your shoulder. </p><p>You look up at him, your face stone cold. "Yes?" </p><p>He places his hand on your shoulder and runs it up and down, soothing the awful memories that take over your brain. "Come here," he tells you. It isn't in the form of a question or plead, it is a statement. </p><p>You scoot in closer to him, your arms wrapped around your torso while he overlaps his slender arms around your body as well. He rests his chin on top of your head, his breaths filling the air and your ears. </p><p>He relaxes you with every stroke of his fingers, every kiss and word he speaks to make you feel better in any situation. When you are stiff as stone due to a bothersome event, he reassures you with an odd fact that is sure to make you giggle. He knows how to bring you peace and stability, and that is something you cannot find in many people.</p><p>Spencer is special and you cannot come to terms with how special he truly is. </p><p>"I really like you, Y/N. Enough for me to love you... I think," Spencer speaks up. </p><p>Your eyes widen and your heart swells two sizes too big. Your heart might explode if you keep thinking about the words and don't say it back to him. You know you will drove yourself insane at what he's said. But you've stayed silent for too long; you do not want to worry him. </p><p>You feel the same way about him. Spencer has cared more about you than anyone you have ever met. It was been two months and a week since you met Spencer in the park and he has been more than just great. He has allowed you to vent about gossip between your family and he has not brought any facts into them- something you would not mind- he simply listens and replies with his own pile of gossip. </p><p>He tries to understand you, mourn with you and be excited with you when you have no one else to be excited with. Spencer knows you more than Clara does. Spencer wants to learn about you every single day, he does not grow tired of hearing you talk about the same things over and over again unlike Clara. </p><p>So if he says he loves you, then you believe it. And not because he's proven it, but because you love him too. </p><p>"I think I like you enough to love you too, Spence." </p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. 12. Before The Party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>chapter 12.</p><p>"Poems?" </p><p>"Hm?" I ask, looking up from the notebook on my desk. My eyes land on Emily, who's warmly smiling down at me. </p><p>She takes her hand out of her pocket and points at my notebook, warmly smiling at me. "You've been writing a lot of poems," she states. I blink my eyes repeatedly, drawing my eyebrows at how she knows they're poems. Then she opens her mouth, sure to clarify. "Your notebook... it says poetry on the front cover." </p><p>I close the notebook and look at the front cover, surprised to see that it does indeed have "poetry" imprinted into the fine cover. "Oh," I whisper. "It does." </p><p>Emily scoffs, her curls bouncing as she shakes her head. She walks around my chair and sits on the corner of my desk, laying her hands on her left leg. She looks at me, as if the question she wants to ask is obvious and out in the air. </p><p>I am a genius, but I am not the best at receiving messages unless they are said out loud. It can be quite frustrating because most people believe that with one glance, an entire conversation is shared, but for me it is more difficult than that. They must say what they are thinking and explain throughly, not just stare and expect me to read their mind. </p><p>I am a profiler, but to be quite honest, I am not the best. I simply have the smarts, not necessarily all of the profiler skills to be the best on the team. Though with everyone's help we make a damn good team. </p><p>"What?" I ask her, my lips thin and straight, creating a stone cold expression on my face. </p><p>"What'cha writing about?" she queries, curiousness in her voice. She wants to know, but she isn't pushing me to tell her. </p><p>"Y/N," I reply. </p><p>She nods her head, "ah, the lovely lady who's lucky enough to be talking to Doctor Spencer Reid." Emily lifts her left hand and slightly pushes my shoulder, laughing along with the act. </p><p>I huff a laugh, pressing my lips together to keep my face straight. I stay silent for a moment, gathering what I should say to continue the conversation. Emily must have a feeling I am trying to find something to say, that is the reason why she remains sitting on my desk.</p><p>"When do you think it is the right time to ask someone to be your girlfriend?" I ask after a long silence. </p><p>She bites down on her lip, her eyes raising to the ceiling, her face expressing someone who is pondering. "You know, I've never asked a girl out before-" </p><p>"Oh I meant as in-" </p><p>She laughs, "don't worry, I get it. But I have...asked a girl out, though she rejected me." </p><p>I knit my eyebrows, surprised that someone would say no to Emily. She has an astounding character and she is the best of friends, so why would anyone say no? Actually, there are reasons to why someone would say no, but I am her friend and I have a biased opinion. Emily is amazing in my eyes, but maybe she isn't so in other's .</p><p>"Really?" I ask despite knowing there are people who would reject anyone, even the best of people, like Emily. </p><p>"Mhm," she murmurs, nodding her head disappointingly. </p><p>I sit up in my chair and scoot in, engaging the conversation. "Who?" I continue, curiosity rising in my voice. </p><p>Emily scoots in closer to me as well, and she laughs quietly. "Someone who caught both of our eyes at least once in our career as FBI agents." </p><p>I register what she's said and my mouth immediately hangs open, my eyes widening at the realization of who she's referring to. "Oh- her?" </p><p>"Yep." </p><p>"Huh." I tilt my head, blinking rapidly as though I'm recalling the emotions I felt and how I saw JJ at the time of my crush. Then I realize I can't recall them because I am not in love with her, but with someone else. "I don't remember how she made me feel but she's-" </p><p>"-Interesting." I look up and Emily is smiling at me, her large pearly teeth pressed against one another. </p><p>"So," I disrupt. "When is it the right time to ask someone to be your girlfriend?" </p><p>Emily sits straight up, biting down on her lip to bring her thoughts back to mind. She thinks for a second, her lips pouting and moving side to side, then back to her bottom lip teethed between her teeth. </p><p>"Prentiss?" I ask, to make sure her mind hasn't wandered off. </p><p>"Yeah, well Reid do you think it's the right time? Do you see yourself with her in the future? Like a broad picture, not necessarily detailed, but a picture."</p><p>I bite my lip, taking in a deep breath as if I don't have an answer. Of course I see Y/N in my future, I've created a life so detailed, full of her and memories I am desperate to create. I cannot see a broad picture, but a detailed one. Which is better, actually. "Yes," I say so simply, a quick sputter. </p><p>She nods, satisfied at her work in aiding me to a path. Emily knows that I think it's the right time, she was simply asking me to make sure I realized what I was planning on doing. She hops off of my desk and pats down her pants; no visible wrinkles formed on her black jeans, but wiping away anything awkwardly, like she must do something with her hands. </p><p>She pats my shoulder, gripping softly through my dress shirt. Her hands are hold, her red painted fingernails seeping through the material. She leans down and whispers in my ear, "you got this," then she moves along. </p><p>I nod, whispering the small encouragement to myself because I need it. It is vital for me to stay optimistic through my plans, because I cannot step out last minute and not only disappoint myself, but Y/N as well. She does not know that I am planning on asking her to be my girlfriend, because I've never brought it into conversation, but Y/N is Y/N and she spots anything in an instance. </p><p>"You got this," I whisper once more, forming my hands into a fist and pumping them up. I peer around for a second, regretting what i'd done because I appeared more like a frat jerk than ever- pumping my fists gently into the air while I encourage myself. It was foolish, funny enough to burst someone into a fit of laughter if they saw. But no one did, or maybe so but they kept in their humor, so I continue with the work on my desk. </p><p>I scribble my unreadable handwriting onto the pieces of paper, closing the files one after another until I have one more left. I take in a deep breath, my eyes droopy after reading so many cases that "weren't as important." My eyes have sunken deeper into my sockets, as if they haven't sunken deep enough already. I take a quick glance around the dull room, spotting Morgan and Emily sitting at the small kitchen area. </p><p>Morgan and Emily are... a team? Morgan, Elle and I were close, super close, but I'm assuming Morgan is more open to change than I am. It took me a long time to feel comfortable with the presence of Emily, while it took Morgan just a couple of hours. Now I enjoy Emily's presence, she's fun and can liven up the room if she wants to. </p><p>I stand up and place my pen into its small bin, pushing aside any eraser bits and push in any paper that is poking out of its brown folders. I stuff my hands in my pocket, reaching for a small crystal Y/N handed in my palm last night. </p><p>She was drunk last night. Special girls' mind went blank because she "wanted to forget about what happened." She was referring to the night her uncle showed up at her mothers birthday party. She still hadn't gotten over it, and she planned on washing it all away with alcohol. </p><p>I didn't expect her to simply get over it, because what happened was traumatic. Y/N was mad at herself and she wouldn't  stop crying because she would become angry that the thoughts and pictures kept rushing to her head. It was a mixture of anger and sadness and that mixture was no good for someone so "small." Hunched down and beaten up from the reoccurring acts, but still managing to smile between tears. </p><p>I tried stopping her, but she shushed me and didn't allow me to stop her. "Shh, let me do this one thing, 'kay?" she would whisper to me, her finger pressed against my lips. </p><p>"Here," she reached into her jean overalls that made her look like a farmer and took out a small crystal, then a bottle from underneath her coffee table. She handed me both. "A crystal and a bottle for you to shut the fuck up."</p><p>"Honey, you can't drink." I would tell her.</p><p>"Baby, my sweet pretty boy, I know what you're gonna say.  I'll remember everything, blah blah blah, but I just want to forget for a little." She gave me a kiss, her lips dry, tinted with the taste of beer. I hate beer, the taste is revolting, but I couldn't tell her anything. </p><p>I took away her drinks after she began laughing uncontrollably and sketching my face with her fingers. She was far more affectionate when she was drunk. She would kiss me and touch my hair, tell me to grow it out so she could braid it and what not. She cuddled up next to me and fell asleep soon after.</p><p>I stayed with her, got up to her drinking again in the bathroom, but as I looked at her groggily, she stopped and threw the bottle away. She said, "that's enough, i'll stop. Go back to sleep pretty boy." </p><p>So I did, but not without overthinking. </p><p>"Oh, hey, Reid we were just talking about something," Emily exclaims, her hand fanning towards my direction. </p><p>My fave turns at the word "something." What were the speaking of exactly. Emily wouldn't talk about our private conversations, she told me that as if she were my therapist, telling me, "this is all confidential, Doctor Reid." </p><p>I nod, following the imaginary line I've set for myself on the floor. I walk up to them, Morgan toying with the pen in his hand, Emily sitting on his desk like she was on mine. She seems happy, excited to share this with me. </p><p>"Okay, so!" Emily smiles. Clapping her hands together. "Rossi invited us to his mansion, which means drinks and pasta and did I mention drinks?" </p><p>"Yes," I state bluntly. </p><p>She brushes it off, laughing. My eyebrows furrow, wondering why she laughed at my statement. She did ask a question. </p><p>"Pretty boy, it was sarcastic," Morgan pipes in.</p><p>I press my lips together, murmuring "oh" under my breath. </p><p>Emily coughs to bring our attention back to her, and she continues. "He told us we could bring a plus one," she says, her comment bold and directed towards someone. That someone being me. I stare, my fingers wrapped tightly around the crystal.</p><p>"Okay, do you want me to bring Y/N?" I catch on to what she's saying quite proudly. </p><p>She rolls her eyes sarcastically, nodding slowly which allows her curls to bob up and down. "Yes. We haven't met her before." </p><p>I bite down on my bottom lip, thinking back to last night where she drank away until she couldn't hold even her head up. Is she even fit for a party right now? Who knows if she's in her apartment drinking again. But I decide to say yes anyways. There might be thousands of opportunities where I get to bring Y/N to team events, but tonight feels right. </p><p>"Great! We finally get to meet her," Emily shouts over a whisper. We stare at one another blankly, then Emily shoves Morgan's shoulder, the glance shared reminding him of something. </p><p>"Right," Morgan replies, "coffee. We're getting coffee. Do you want to come with us?"</p><p>I look behind me at the file laying on my desk. I could do it when I come back, I fly by those so quickly, I have nothing to worry about. But I also stare at it, blinking slowly trying to gather what I could do. Not buy some coffee, but see Y/N; how she's doing. I may not be her boyfriend - yet - but I care. </p><p>Who the hell wouldn't care about Y/N? </p><p>"I actually have somewhere to be right now, but thanks." They nod and I step back, turning around and heading towards my desk. I grab the strap of my bag and pull it onto my arm. I hurriedly step out of the doors, meeting Anderson who's weirdly standing outside, arms folded. Bored, I assume. That man has things to do but I understand how boring it could be. </p><p>I nod and meet the doors of the elevator, lifting my fingers and pressing the button with an arrow facing down. I step inside once the doors open, bringing my satchel close to myself. I press the main floor button and scoot back to the right corner, tightly yet warmly wrapped around myself. </p><p>I stay that way until the doors open. I step out and rush through the dozens of agents are people I've never seen in my life. A man holds open the door for me and I step out, smiling at him nicely. </p><p>I don't notice the clacking of heels behind me until I reach the sidewalk. They're still following me, which is odd because not many others ride the metro, surprisingly. </p><p>Their breath becomes louder and as much as I should speed up, cross the street, keep my mouth shut, I don't. I do the opposite because I don't ever think straight. I slow down and my hand loosens onto strap of my satchel. </p><p>The breath is fast, tired as they catch up to me. "Hi, hi sorry I didn't mean to scare you." She grabs onto her bag, her bright red/orange hair falling onto her face. </p><p>I smile softly, clutching onto my bag again. I've never seen her in my entire life, yet again the FBI building is full of people i've never met. "It's alright, no worries." </p><p>I continue walking straight, keeping my eyes up as I walk closer to my destination. She continues catching her breath, letting out a "phew" followed by a laughter once she's got a hold of it. "So," she starts, "how are you?" </p><p>"I'm good," I state plainly. Having a conversation with someone who i've never seen or heard of is odd. I am already nervous as is, speaking to people, but someone appearing out of nowhere makes it worse. "How are you?" </p><p>"Good. Where ya' going?" the red haired lady asks. </p><p>"Seeing someone." </p><p>"A slut?" </p><p>My eyebrows turn down, my face becoming hot. She can't call her a slut, no one can. She doesn't even know who she is, so her calling Y/N out of her name must take some courage. "For someone who looks so nice you do have a foul mouth."</p><p>I don't look at her, but I can sense a smirk displayed on her face. "That's where you're going to though right? To a sluts house?" </p><p>"She isn't a slut. She's my girlfriend," I respond angrily. "And she... she looks better than you." I pause in my steps, regretting what slipped past my lips. I have never ever said something negative about a woman's looks, because I know how messed up that is. But it sputters out of my mouth, unable to be stopped. </p><p>She laughs, "well my bad. She must be gorgeous then, huh?" </p><p>"Yup. Look, we've just met, I don't know your name, and you've come up to me and called my girlfriend a slut. For what reason?" I ask, curiously because I truly want to understand why she's been such a rude person. </p><p>She remains quiet, following my steps and breaths she's practiced. </p><p>"Well I have to go," I state after she fails to speak. I begin to cross the street but she grabs onto my arm, tightly with her nails seeping through my clothing. I wince, though the pain is subtle. I pull back my arm abruptly and she steps back, not scared but out of laughter. "Please don't touch me, thank you." </p><p>She giggles once again, her bubbly attitude nothing big toxic. She probably causes much trouble in her office, wherever that may be. "Okay, okay. Just wanted to walk with you Mister." </p><p>"Doctor," I mumble under my breath, my eyes rolling out of frustration and my hands so damp from sweat. </p><p>"Look Mister, I've seen you walk around the BAU, glasses, slicked back hair, all of the fine moments, and I started gaining interest," she begins pointing out every hairstyle, tie - oddly- the attractive shirts and pants i've worn, but I don't enjoy much of it. </p><p>"Mhm," I respond. I may seem like a jerk for not replying, saying thank you, but I remain unaware of her name, all basic information. </p><p>"So... do you care?" </p><p>I blink rapidly, grinning softly at myself. "I... do not care, sorry. Excuse me, I have to go." I wave her a small goodbye and cross the street, jogging slowly to the sidewalk. </p><p>"Alright, see you tomorrow!" she shouts from across the street. I groan, but do not reply because there isn't a need to. I still lift my index and middle finger and press them together, waving them at her, "salute" style. </p><p>I let out an inhibited breath, shaking my head at what I just encountered. I don't think too much of it, because I know I won't see her tomorrow. I know my way around the building, I'll find a way to exit secretly. </p><p>I reach the station and follow through all steps of getting onto the train; waiting, looking around, then I step on when it's stopped in front of me. I sit in my usual spot, minding my business like I usually do. </p><p>I do not think listening in on conversations is good, it's an invasion of privacy and it can be traumatic to your ears if you hear something you don't want to listen. Personally, I have listened in on conversations where I wasn't asked to join, and I've heard questionable things. So, I do not suggest anyone to do that. But it's an opinion, therefore people will continue anyways. </p><p>After a couple of minutes, the train comes to a stop and I look up, checking to see if it's my stop. It is, so I get up and step out onto the platform, keeping my eyes straight ahead. </p><p>I reach the sidewalk and speed up, walking faster than in order to see Y/N before my time is up and I have to return to work. I glance around me, at the buildings and such, which begin to get smaller and smaller as I walk past them. </p><p>I then look up to see the apartment building, the place special girl is in. I grow anxious, thinking about what she's doing. If she's drunk, high, fleeted the country. I am clearly over exaggerating, but it's what comes to mind and won't go away. </p><p>I pass through, saying hi to the people who run out on a hurry. I make my way to her building, looking carefully at each number because they all look the same. I finally find the building number and enter the small building, an odd building where everything is inside, no stairs visible until you enter. </p><p>She only lives on the second floor, so I walk up the stairs. I pant in a low tone, my breath gone from the steep steps. I stand right in front of her door, my forehead damp, sweat from how un-athletic I am. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and then brush my hand on my pants. I guide my hair out of my face then knock, the rhythm of the taps awful to the ears. </p><p>No answer. </p><p>I knock again. No answer. I groan, then bend down and remove over the mat. The gold key is visible, and I groan again. I've told Y/N to hide her key someplace else, where no one can simply reach down, find the key, and rob her. Yes, she is in a gated community, but who knows what could happen. </p><p>I stick the key into the lock and twist it, earning an unlocking sound. I turn the doorknob and push the door open, careful not to scare Y/N. </p><p>I look around the room, then spot Y/N sitting on her counter, eating from a green container . She looks up, smiling under her hand which is covering her mouth. She wipes away spaghetti sauce from her lips. "Hey," she greets, almost in a whisper. </p><p>I drop my satchel on her couch and walk over to her, placing my hand on her bare knee. She has on an oversized collared shirt, the dull colors of brown and white on thick stripes. </p><p>I touch the container which she's eating from, cold. She's eating cold spaghetti. "Hey, strange girl, don't eat cold spaghetti. I can heat it up for you," I tell her. </p><p>She takes the container back and sets it on the table, dipping her fork inside. "It's fine, I eat cold food all the time. It's better sometimes. Hey! You eat cold food all the time too." </p><p>I purse my lips, shaking my head. "Okay but we're not talking about me. My health isn't as important as yours." </p><p>"Bullshit," she whispers. She closes the container and slithers off of the counter, taking the container and shoving it back into the refrigerator. </p><p>I look at her carefully, inspecting her to see if she's here here, or gone. She seems normal, but some people act more normal than others when high or drunk. "You okay?" I ask her, running my hand up her arm. </p><p>"Yeah, I'm good. Are you scared of me yet?" she scoffs, now leaning against her white countertop. </p><p>I scoot in front of her, taking her hand in mine, already beginning to play with her fingers. "No. Just... I don't like seeing you so out of it."</p><p>Y/N lays a kiss on my lips, her lips and mouth clean of any drugs or alcohol. "I can't promise you I won't ever get drunk, but I promise if I'm around you, I will try not to." </p><p>"And drugs," I continue. </p><p>"I haven't smoked since college, Doc." </p><p>"Okay," I say in a low register. "I just want you to be safe, I want my girlfriend to be safe." Her eyes open wide, and as I am about to continue, I stop and take a minute to process what I've said. I've called her my girlfriend. It sputtered out, but it was smooth, gliding out softly enough I didn't notice. </p><p>"You called me your girlfriend," Y/N states. </p><p>"I- shit," I curse, unlike me. I've just failed to keep myself under control. I want her to be fully mine now. Not mine mine, as in jealous- you cannot speak to anyone kind of mine, but mine. "I want you to be my girlfriend. I always think about you, every minute of every day and every time I look at you," I look at her, my eyebrows turning at how amused she looks. She isn't interrupting me, telling me to shut up and get to the point. "You aren't telling me to shut up." </p><p>She wraps her hands around my neck, her fingers finding their way into my hair. "Yeah, because I like listening to you ramble, it's cute." She lays another kiss on my lips, then one on my jaw, then returning back to my lips. "But yes, doc, I'll be your girlfriend." </p><p>I smile, smile, smile until my mouth is sore and cannot open any longer. I kiss her until even my lips can no longer move either. </p><p>"Came to see me?" she asks after a moment of kissing and laughing. </p><p>"Yeah, actually we're having a team thing at Rossi's house." </p><p>"Pasta guy? Wine man?" </p><p>"Mhm," I assure. I kiss her cheek then pull away, checking my watch which shows I need to go back to the BAU. </p><p>"Alright, yeah, I'll go." She nods, then follows behind me, her face almost mashing against my back when I stop to grab my bag. </p><p>I throw my satchel over my shoulder and turn to her, my smile and hers creating a bright light. Blinding.</p><p>She guides me to the front and opens the door, tapping her fingernails against the wood while she waits patiently for me to exit. </p><p>I lean against her and plant a kiss on her forehead, whispering "I love you," to her before walking out. </p><p>"I'll see you when?" she asks. </p><p>"Seven Forty-Five!" </p><p>"O'kay. Be safe Doc," she calls to me, her voice loving and sweet like she truly cares for me. She does, just how I care for her. </p><p>"I will," I whisper. </p><p>I will, and I'll show her to my team. Show my girlfriend to my team.</p>
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